


If Only In My Dreams

by odetteandodile



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Comedy, Cooking, Domesticity, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Romantic Comedy, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sam and Bucky have to pretend to be married, Soldier Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers is husband material, blogger bucky barnes, but it's all comedic relief no sexual tension there sorry if that's what you might hope for, cozy feelings and sweaters, like the ultimate, there is a lot of Sexual Tension for Steve and Bucky though, this is just really silly Christmas fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-23 12:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16618814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/odetteandodile/pseuds/odetteandodile
Summary: Bucky is a highly successful cooking and lifestyle blogger, the gay New England Pioneer Woman if you will. He writes all about life in his Connecticut home with his D.H. (darling husband). Only problem? It’s all complete fiction. He actually lives in a shitty Brooklyn apartment, is single as hell, and has visited Connecticut exactly one time at the age of eight.When his agent Sam informs him that he's been offered an exclusive sponsorship deal  with Stark Media and a three book contract to go with it, Bucky's forced to fess up to Sam, who's predictably...displeased. But Sam's also convinced the deal is too good to miss—even if they have to put on a little bit of a show in order to get it.So Tony and Pepper descend on Bucky and Sam's fake home for Christmas with a devastatingly handsome War Hero in tow, and their already complicated plan quickly gets even more complicated as Bucky finds himself falling head over heels for Steve. Can he keep it together just for the holidays? Did he ever have it together in the first place?





	1. Make the Yuletide Gay

**Author's Note:**

> This is a kind of screwball fluff fic based on the underappreciated 1945 Christmas move Christmas in Connecticut. 
> 
> Sam and Bucky's fake marriage is central to their hilarious "I hate you but fondly" dynamic but no ship is sailing there, just a heads up. Sam is a weary straight dealing with Bucky's shenanigans. 
> 
> Steve on the other hand, exhibits many of my personal dream qualities in a man including: an interest in flatware, coffee making, and being very handsome. Bucky likes all these things too. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_Hello darlings! I hope everyone’s Thanksgivings were successful, beautiful, and easy. If anybody tried out the Pancetta Sage Sweet Potato Pie or the Gold-leaf Mini Pumpkin place card holders shoot me a picture, I’d love to show off your gorgeous work for a follow-up holiday blog and to inspire everybody to get PUMPED for Christmas. (On that note, I’ve got some gooood stuff coming your way throughout the month of December to make your family’s mouths water and eyes pop, can’t wait to share). As for me and DH, our Thanksgiving was serene and magical—Connecticut even stepped it up for us with the first snowfall of the year just in time! As I’m writing this, that sweet man himself is outside chopping wood because you KNOW how we like our cozy fires once the snow starts. Nothing gets me in the mood for Christmas like the smell of wood smoke, except maybe my Holiday Hot Toddy (recipe here), how about you guys? Anyway I hope you all took my advice and overestimated your cooking portions a bit, because today is all about my favorite ways to make use of those dreamy Thanksgiving leftovers—warning: read on at your own peril, I guarantee you’ll want to get up and make some of these like, now…_

_XOXO, J.B._

Bucky hits save on the draft, clicking out of the Thatchery&Sprig posting form to scan over the recipes he’d pulled together last week before he publishes. 

He jumps—distracted by an almighty crash and a blaring car alarm on the street outside. Bucky rolls his eyes. It may already be snowing peacefully in Connecticut (he’d checked his weather app updates to be sure, he’s a _professional_ ) but in Brooklyn it’s still just sleeting miserably and everyone is cranky about it. Not that New Yorkers are ever exactly un-cranky about anything, but still. There have definitely been more screaming matches on the street this week. It makes Bucky sort of rethink whether taking the street-facing apartment in his building _was_ any better than one of the ones on the alley. But no, on that side the fights are just about who stole whose stash usually rather than parking spots. It all evens out. Maybe his super will finally replace the ancient windows with something insulated this year—that could help. 

Hah, yeah, and maybe this is the year he actually says fuck it and really buys the farmhouse in Connecticut all his readers think he lives in. That’s just about as fucking likely. 

Bucky is glaring morosely at said window, with a view of exactly nothing but grimy gray rain at the moment, when he gives another start. But this time it’s just his phone buzzing against his leg—he digs it out and sees _Sam Wilson_ on the screen, swiping quickly to answer. 

“Yup?”

“Barnes—are you sitting down?” Sam’s voice comes over the line, a little grainy like he’s calling from his car. 

“Uh—yes,” Bucky says. He is in fact installed on his couch for the afternoon, trying to get his Thanksgiving stuff squared away so he can get moving on Christmas. The holidays are a real marathon for the Home and Lifestyle crowd, last year this is when he landed three of his biggest sponsors to date so he knows he’s gotta make it good. 

“Hubby around?” Sam asks, and his voice contains some barely restrained excitement. 

“Nope,” Bucky says with a chuckle. His fictional “Darling Husband” is decidedly not around. 

“Okay well I have a proposal that involves both of you, but you can talk to him about it later because I can’t wait. Oh man, I am the best agent in the world you’re gonna flip—guess who I just got off the phone with?” 

“Um…no idea,” Bucky says, starting to feel just a tiny bit of concern. “Butterball?” 

Sam laughs, “No—couldn’t close that one unfortunately. But it doesn’t matter, this is better. I just got a call and offer from _Pepper-fucking-Potts_.”

The bubble of worry vanishes as Bucky catches some of Sam’s excitement. 

“Pepper Potts like—like Stark Media editor-in-chief _Pepper_? Are you shitting me?”

Stark Media is the umbrella company for some of the country’s best publications—Travel mags, home and garden, cooking, tech, you name it—not to mention their not inconsiderable book imprint. 

“Yes, _that_ Pepper. And Tony Stark himself was on the call—I didn’t even know he got involved in any of the day to day anymore, can you believe—”

“ _Sam_ ,” Bucky breaks in, “this is all very exciting for you but what does it have to do with me?”

“Right, right,” Sam comes back to earth, putting his business voice back on. “Apparently, they’ve been keeping an eye on Thatchery&Sprig since sometime last year, and they’re thinking about acquiring you! Like, full sponsorship, free reign and publication options in Home and Hearth—and a book deal man! This offer is crazy, I don’t even know where to—”

“Jesus,” Bucky says, suitably impressed. Home and Hearth is one of the oldest home magazines around, a perennial occupant of every doctor’s and dentist’s office in the country not to mention the go-to for every housewife who hasn’t pledged themselves to Martha Stewart instead. 

“I _know_!” Sam exclaims. “Okay here’s the thing though, I know it’s kind of short notice but…they want to do a kick-off piece about your Christmas stuff.” 

“Okay…” Bucky says with some trepidation. 

“Tony and Pepper—they want to come stay with you that week, bring a photographer and do the whole thing with you—like, part profile of you, part of them, which is nuts, they haven’t done a profile since they got hitched and—” Sam rushes to continue as Bucky’s stomach drops. Because that…is not going to work. “And okay, you know that Captain? The one who just won the Medal of Honor, been doing the morning shows circuit because everybody realized at his ceremony that he’s also super hot so now everyone’s obsessed? They wanna bring him too, totally a publicity stunt but the dude just told Good Morning America that he doesn’t have any Christmas plans because he hasn’t got any family to stay with and I think Stark saw an opportunity to capitalize while they launch this thing with you at the same time—”

“Sam,” Bucky says, absolutely pained over what he has to say next. “Sam we can’t—they can’t come here.” 

“Wh—why?” Sam’s voice drops into something devastated and pleading. “Bucky, look—I know your man is really private and all but come _on_ this is a once in a lifetime chance! A three book deal, Stark-level exposure! _Tell_ me you can’t sell him on opening up the house a little bit, just this _once_ —”

“I—I hear you Sam it’s just—” Bucky glances helplessly around his messy, shoebox apartment. What can he say to get out of this? There’s no way Sam will drop it. The idea of his Darling Husband’s desire for privacy has gotten him pretty far since he started this whole thing, like why he never posts photos and talks about him by name but…he highly doubts it’s going to cut it now. Bucky sighs heavily. 

“Are you free right now? To meet?” Bucky asks, resigned. 

“Uh—I mean I’m free for a bit but I don’t really have time to get up to Connecticut, I’ve got a dinner—”

“How about Brooklyn?” 

There’s a very long, pregnant pause. When Sam replies his tone is dubious. “Yeah. I could do Brooklyn.” 

“I’ll shoot you a pin to the place.” 

 

Bucky opens the door to Sam with an extremely sheepish expression. Sam’s face, on the other hand, is blank. 

It darkens somewhat as he steps into Bucky’s apartment, taking in his shitty second-hand couch, his packed to bursting kitchen (all these fancy recipes have caused him to acquire a lot of random shit, okay?), and finally landing on the corner set-up where Bucky photographs his projects—a rustic looking wooden table top propped on sawhorses with the ferns and gold foil wallpaper tacked up behind it. That wallpaper costs $50 a _yard_ , but Bucky liked imagining being able to paper a whole wall in his dining room with it instead of purchasing one sheet as the backdrop to his photos. 

Sam stalks over to the couch, dropping onto it and closing his eyes for a moment. Then he looks back up at Bucky, glaring. 

“Ta-da,” Bucky says, feebly. 

“I hate you. So much.” 

Bucky walks over to drop down beside Sam with a huff. “Yeah. I’m really sorry man—I didn’t really expect anything like this to happen when I started.” 

“I—how—wh—” Sam begins several jerky, aborted questions before finally landing on, “what the fuck?”

Bucky rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “Um, so I was working as an assistant in a medical office, right? And I had a lot of time on my hands like, all the time at work just dicking around on the internet. And I kept reading all these dumb lifestyle blogs and I just thought—this is so easy, I could do this and I bet people would eat it up! I could be the gay Connecticut Pioneer Woman! Or whatever. So I just kind of started it as a like, joke?” Sam shoots him another baleful look. “But then people _did_ eat it up and then you got in touch about representing me for sponsorships and it just…snowballed?”

“I—husband?” Sam chokes out, looking close to apoplectic as he takes this information in. 

Bucky shakes his head. “Um…fiction.” 

Sam groans impressively, leaning forward to bury his face in his hands. 

“I’m really sorry, I had no idea it would make its way to like, Stark Media level, that’s crazy!” 

“No. No, I refuse.” Sam says, lifting his head and pointing an accusing finger at Bucky. 

“Refuse—refuse what?” 

“I refuse to refuse this offer! It’s too good Barnes, we can _not_ let this deal go.” 

“Sam,” Bucky says, slowly, like he’s talking a child down from a tantrum, “I know but—this is it man. This is Thatchery&Sprig, it’s me and my laptop. There’s no farmhouse in Connecticut to host anyone even if I wanted to so…I appreciate you getting this deal for me but—it’s not possible.” 

“Man screw _you_! I’m not letting this deal go for _me_! Do you know what kinda pull I’d have at my firm if I get a client an exclusive like this with _Stark_?” 

“Sorry,” Bucky says again, and this time he really is. 

“Shove your sorry. So you’re a big faking faker liar—time to man up and take it to the next level.”

“I—” Bucky starts with a confused frown. “How?” 

Sam clasps his hands in front of himself, flexing them against each other in a way that makes Bucky not sure if he’s thinking about the question or just thinking about strangling him. Could be either. Or both. 

“Look okay.” Sam says, finally. “It’s less than a week they’d be there. You cook your fancy Christmas stuff—wait, you _do_ actually cook, right?” Bucky nods, and Sam looks relieved by that at least. “Cook your fancy shit, make your centerpieces or holly bramble wine or whatever shit, they snap some photos—and then it’s done, you plead back to that whole ‘my husband loves privacy’ thing and take this _amazing_ new career move you absolutely _don’t_ deserve but I absolutely _do_ and we never speak of it again.” 

“You—um, how? Cooking and my holly and _witch hazel_ wreaths are the easy part. Unfortunately I lack the farmhouse and the husband and I feel like that’s reeeeally probably the part that they’re gonna notice is missing so—”

“Airbnb. I’ll find something that matches all your bullshit. Can’t be that hard. And then…” Sam heaves an almighty sigh, like a man headed straight for the firing line. “I will be your Darling Husband. You’ve never named or described him for his _privacy_ ” he says the word acidly, “so that at least works in our favor and I won’t have to like, hire an actor or something.” 

Bucky can’t help himself, he smirks at Sam with raised eyebrows. “This a proposal, Wilson?” 

“Man fuck the fuck off. We’re _doing_ this.” 

Bucky pauses, actually considering what it is that Sam’s suggested. It’s not…as crazy as it seems on the surface. Well, three years ago Bucky would have thought it absolutely was. But that was before he accidentally became a famous blogger based on an entirely fictional life and managed to keep it all going out of his shitty Brooklyn bachelor pad. Keep it going so well that Stark Media wants to buy it. So maybe…maybe with a little more investment in the trappings…

“Aren’t you straight?” Bucky asks, of the many questions popping into his mind for some reason that’s the one he vocalizes first. 

“Yes. But I’m pretty sure we can sell the weekend without consummating anything and all you’ve said about fucking ‘darling husband’ is that he’s handsome and amazing so I definitely fit that bill. You _owe_ me this, Barnes.” Sam fixes him with a menacing stare, “It’s this or I swear to god I might murder you in this apartment and blame it on the crackhead I saw on the stoop.”

Bucky bites his lip, honestly thinking it over. Then he grins, and reaches out to take one of Sam’s hands in his. 

“In that case—my angel, light of my life,” he says in a saccharine voice, “how do you feel about inviting some publishing moguls and a war hero into our love nest for the holidays this year so we can deceive them for money?” 

Sam just groans again, sinking back onto Bucky’s couch and kicking at him with one foot to stand so that he can stretch out on it, one hand to his forehead. 

“Please tell me you have the ingredients in this apartment for one of your dumb cocktail recipes,” Sam says, eyes closed, “I would like three.” 

“You got it, DH.” Bucky moves away to the kitchen, thinking that he actually does have the ingredients for one of the special December bourbon cocktails he’s been meaning to test out. He doesn’t usually get to do his run-throughs with anyone else for feedback. He wonders if Sam likes rosemary. 

“And two ibuprofen!” Sam yells after him. 

“Yes my dove,” Bucky says, pulling tumblers off his bar cart as he goes. “You want those separate, or ground in?” 

“I…I hate you.”


	2. It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys!! Your response to the first chapter killed me dead I was so happy! Anyway to thank you all for being so nice to me I couldn't even wait 24 hours to give you number 2...hope you like it! 
> 
> And so, enter Steve ;)

Tony pulls the car around the end of the gravel driveway in a theatrical spray of snow, and Steve cringes a little as the car slides. Tony Stark crashing his car into the side of the Barnes’ farmhouse is _not_ the entrance he’s hoping to make. Luckily the thing comes to a halt without going further, Tony pulling up on the emergency break with a self-satisfied smirk. 

“Nervous, Cap?” 

“Enough, Tony,” Pepper admonishes with a _look_ , sparing Steve from answering. 

Steve sighs. It’s possible that this is going to be a very long week. Half a week. Whatever. Longer potentially even than the one that got him this Medal of Honor and all the unwanted attention that’s come with it in the first place. It’s almost enough to make Steve wish—okay, no, there’s no world in which Steve wouldn’t have done exactly what he did in that firefight, there were _kids_ involved—but it makes him wish nobody else had ever found out about it. Catching the eye of Tony Stark isn’t something he’s sure he’s grateful for. 

The one _maybe_ upside to this whole thing, he hopes, is meeting J.B. and his husband—getting to have the kind of magazine Christmas he’s always had a secret weakness for reading about. He’s not sure if J.B. will be pleased or not to find out that Steve is a fan—he’s been reading Thatchery&Sprig for over a year. It’s his dark secret. If any of his team had ever found out they would have mocked him _ruthlessly_. But it’s just…nice. Indulging in reading about a kind of life where making things beautiful and nice for everyone is the most important of your daily activities. Steve’s life isn’t like that. He can’t say he’s ever had a reason to actually attempt any of the DIY projects or 98% of the recipes J.B. posts. But it’s a kind of escape to imagine a world where he would. 

Steve climbs out of the back seat of Tony’s ridiculous jag, tugging at the collar of his dress uniform. It feels silly to be wearing it now just to show up for their stay, but Tony had insisted (and then Pepper had gently urged) that he put it on for the arrival at least for a few photographs. The Medal of Honor is very conspicuous. And Steve’s proud of it—how could he not be? It’s—well, an honor. It’s just…a lot. 

But of all the appearances he’s had to make as a result of it in the past month, this is the one that he’s the most cautiously optimistic about. It might be fun? Right? Definitely can’t be worse than doing the morning show circuit, which left Steve drained and nihilistic after every single taping. He’d tried his best in all of them to redirect people’s attentions to all the guys and women still overseas, the ones still fighting. But he’d mostly gotten bright-white shark smiles and questions about his ideal date in return. 

If he’d thought that revealing, in a moment of pique, that he’s gay would put an end to that—oh boy, was he ever wrong. The Department of Defense publicist in charge of handling him had booked four more appearances that very day.

Luckily, this photo spread is the last one—for a while at least. Steve had put his foot down about that. He’s really hoping that by the time the new year rolls around his fifteen minutes of fame and the public interest in him will have blown over, moved on to something new. A dog who saved his owners from a fire or something. 

He hears the snap of the photographer’s camera lens, and looks over dolefully at the woman who’s just climbed out of the other side of the car. 

“Relax, Steve,” Natasha says with a close smile. “Try and enjoy yourself.” 

“Hmph,” says Steve. Though he appreciates the sentiment. So far Natasha has been the least intrusive of the photographers he’s interacted with since he got back stateside—she’s a woman of very few words it seems, which is significantly better than the constant heckling and orders to “smile” or “look noble” that have been a steady stream in the press pools. 

Steve does his best to relax his shoulders, turning to view the house. He’s read so much about it—it’s exactly like J.B. describes. A perfect Connecticut farmhouse, light colored stone with tall windows, all dusted with snow. Like a postcard. On the door hangs a bright red and yellow wreath he recognizes from a tutorial posted on Thatchery&Sprig at the start of December. He can’t help but smile. 

The emerald green front door swings open, and a good-looking man in a cable knit sweater steps out, smiling when he sees them. 

“Hey, they’re here!” the man shouts over his shoulder through the door. 

The man steps forward to shake hands with Steve, smiling winningly and revealing a charming gap between his front teeth. 

“Captain Rogers, I’m Sam, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

“The pleasure is all mine,” Steve responds, returning the firm handshake. Mentally he takes in Sam, comparing him with the elusive picture J.B. has always painted of his husband throughout his years of blogging. Definitely doesn’t disappoint on the looks, Steve thinks. And he seems like he could be funny and even-keeled. He’ll hold off on judgments for now. 

“Wilson you _dog_ , you absolute _trompeur_!” Tony cuts in, good-naturedly to shake Sam’s hand. “You could’ve mentioned when we set this all up that you were agent _and_ paramour! Man you really _do_ keep your personal details locked down, huh? Does that drive Barnes crazy?”

“Oh we do drive each other a little nuts now and then, you know how it is,” Sam says with a laugh. “Glad you understand though—life in the spotlight isn’t for everyone.” 

“You mean life in the spotlight isn’t for _you_ , sugar…” The man at the door trails off. 

And yeah, Steve recognizes that face from pictures. And the soft, perfectly mussed hair and stubble combo. J.B. doesn’t post a lot of photos of himself, but Steve has been painfully aware of every single one. And if maybe some of his fantasies of living this dream blog life _also_ included those steel blue eyes and softly cleft chin in them…that’s okay. He knows how to keep things to himself too. 

“J.B.! The man of the hour!” Tony says, throwing out his arms magnanimously. 

“I—hi Tony, nice to meet in person. “ He says, shaking hands with Tony and then Pepper, “and Ms. Potts—your headshot doesn’t half do you justice.”

Pepper’s eyes crinkle indulgently at the compliment. “Pepper is fine for me, J.B.—it’s great to be here. Thanks for letting us invite ourselves into your home for the holidays.” She cuts a look at Tony for that last bit, who looks utterly unrepentant. 

“Well in that case,” J.B. says with an answering smile, as he makes his way around the group to Steve, holding out his hand. “You all can call me Bucky.” 

“Bucky?” Steve asks, not quite able to tear his eyes away from J.B.—Bucky’s. 

Bucky gives a soft, answering smile. “It’s uh—a nickname. That I never quite kicked. My name’s James Barnes and J.B. seemed better suited to publication.” 

“Right, so what’s first?” Tony asks, cutting across them and making Steve realize he has maybe been shaking Bucky’s hand for too long. He drops it at once. “Dance of the sugar plum fairies? Will there be elf costumes? Tell us what’s shakin’ J.B.”

Bucky turns from Steve to raise his eyebrows at Tony. “I was thinking booze. How’s that sound?”

“I like it! A classic New England holiday-and-every-day tradition.” Tony replies, gleeful, turning to bound uninvited into the house while the rest follow. 

“Please let me know at any point if I need to send him away for a little while,” Pepper says, putting a hand on Sam’s arm earnestly. “I’ll be the one signing on the dotted line for this thing, just so you know. And it won’t hurt your standing with me even a little bit. Steve?” she turns to Steve, holding out an arm to link with his. As much as he’s not thrilled with any media personnel at this moment, Steve has to admit Pepper is a real class act. 

Steve and Pepper climb the stairs next, with Bucky and Sam trailing behind—and Natasha last of all, snapping away. 

Steve hears, only because he’s paying fairly close attention, when Sam says to Bucky in a low voice, “Better make mine a double, lambchop.” 

“Anything for you, honey-bunches-of-oats.” 

Steve snorts softly. He’d find all the cutesy names pretty cloying, except both Sam and Bucky seem to hurl them with not an inconsiderable amount of sarcasm from what he’s seen so far. Maybe it’s an inside joke between them. Which okay, if that’s the case that brings the whole thing right around to being pretty cute again. 

Steve looks around as they enter the main living space of the house. Along one wall is a huge fireplace, made from the same stone as the exterior of the house. Winging it on either side are built in shelves full of books, and when Steve looks closer he sees each of their names adorning the row of stockings hanging from the mantle. It makes Steve’s chest feel oddly tight—he hasn’t had a stocking with his name on it hung up for Christmas in probably fifteen years. Not since the year his mom died, he graduated, and he joined the marines. 

There’s other little Christmas touches, too, all the ones he had secretly hoped for and expected based on the blog—lots of fresh evergreen and holly berries and things edged with gold leaf. A Christmas tree that’s got to be twelve feet tall takes up the end of the room opposite the fireplace, along with a grand piano. Steve makes a mental note to go peruse the ornaments on the tree later—he’s always felt like you can tell a lot about a family by how they decorate their Christmas tree. 

As Sam leads Pepper and Tony over to sit on the sofas arranged around the fire and Natasha disappears somewhere around the edge of the room—scoping out angles, no doubt—Steve turns and finds Bucky peering at him with something like nervousness on his face. 

“What do you think?” Bucky asks. His expression is so intent that it suddenly strikes Steve that he’s _actually_ asking like—like he cares what Steve thinks? 

Steve can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of that, and Bucky raises his eyebrows. 

“I think—I think it’s everything I would have expected from reading your blog.” 

Bucky’s mouth curves up in a smile and Steve’s stomach swoops a little. 

“You read my blog?” he asks. 

Steve’s stomach swoops again, this time less pleasantly and much more embarrassedly. He can feel a telltale blush rising in his cheeks. 

“Oh I mean—I just sometimes—it’s,” he stammers, before finally resigning himself and just admitting, “yeah. Yeah I do. Faithfully.” He ducks his head, but when he looks up again Bucky is grinning widely at him. 

“Well alright Captain, you’re full of surprises already. Hope I don’t disappoint too much.” 

“Oh, you couldn’t!” Steve says, much faster than feels appropriate. “I mean, I’m sure everything you’ve planned will be great.” Steve keeps himself from sighing aloud, but just barely. Pull it _together_. 

“In that case…can I get you a drink Captain Rogers?” 

“I—Steve. Please call me Steve. And that’d…be great. Except—” Steve hesitates, keeping up his apparent full commitment to being completely awkward, “do you think I could go to my room first or—or just somewhere to change out of,” he sweeps a broad gesture at his dress uniform, “all this?” 

“Steve,” Bucky says, sweeping his eyes to follow Steve’s hand motion—definitely following the motion Steve made, not just…just looking. Because he wouldn’t, obviously. “Yeah go on through,” he says, pointing to one of the open doorways off the main space, “you’ll be in the first on the left. Let me know if you need anything else.” 

Steve nods, opting to bite down on whatever weird thing he might be about to say and instead hurrying toward the indicated room. 

Hopefully if he can get comfortable physically in some damn jeans and without a reminder of his unwanted fame quite literally hanging around his neck he’ll be able to chill out and be cool. 

Hopefully.


	3. Chestnuts Roasting (on a baking sheet)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I wasn't really planning on it but...I think this chapter every day thing is happening. Also note I've updated the total count to 12, which seems like a good even "Twelve Days of Christmas" number coming at you.
> 
> Your comments make me happier than I can express!! 
> 
> Coming in hot with the cozy homey vibes...Bucky you in danger girl.

When Bucky manages to turn back to the party now seated in front of the fireplace—he was _making sure Steve found his room_ okay, definitely not just enjoying the view from behind—he finds Pepper and Tony admiring his fresh evergreen and birch garland on the mantelpiece, and Sam admiring the (admittedly pretty nice) hourglass figure of the photographer leaning over to photograph his advent calendar. 

Bucky clears his throat pointedly, and Sam’s eyes immediately fly to his thumbs twiddling in his lap—as _if_ that doesn’t make him look even more guilty. 

“I’m going to get some drinks started in the kitchen—then we can take it easy this afternoon, I’ll plan on dinner around 6:30, how does that sound?” 

“Sounds great Buckaroon,” Tony says, and Pepper nods agreement. Natasha doesn’t contribute, just continues her circuit of the room photographing Bucky’s decorations. And good, he spent the past two days feverishly decking this place out and then lying awake at night thinking about how to further carry the illusion so he wants it all to be appreciated. 

“Sam, be a gem and come give me a hand huh?” Bucky says, and Sam’s eyes flick around to the others in a silent plea for help that they are unaware of. 

Bucky sees the look and gives Sam a shark-like grin, and to his credit Sam only slumps a little in visible defeat as he gets up to follow Bucky to the kitchen. 

Bucky doesn’t say anything as the door swings shut behind him, just picks up a dishcloth and tosses it at Sam, who reaches at the last moment to catch it, looking confused. 

“What’s this…?”

“Oh sorry—it just looked like you might still have a little _drool on your chin_ —”

Sam groans and flings the towel back to smack Bucky in the face, “Oh my _god_ you’re dramatic—”

“They’ve been here _five_ minutes and you can’t keep your straight nonsense under wraps—”

“Oh I’m _sorry_ ,” Sam says, putting his hands on his hips, “like you didn’t watch Captain Handsome alllllll the way down the hall—”

“I—” Bucky splutters, called out, “I’m gay! They brought a six foot two greek statue who almost died saving _children_ here in _uniform_ , frankly I think it’s a little suspicious if we aren’t both checking him out!” 

“That’s not fair, I looked for like _one_ second, did you _see_ her?”

“Yes I saw her! But you’re supposed to be desperately in love with me and unaffected by a 36-26-36 because you’re _gay now_ —”

Sam makes a strangled, inarticulate noise, “But you just—but you noticed too then! This is a double standard!” 

“Well yeah but—” Bucky falters, trying to reclaim the high ground, “I noticed in like, a disinterested aesthetic appreciation of a fellow human who keeps it tight— _you_ were doing those cartoon eyes where she turns into a big ham or whatever and you want to eat her—”

“Well maybe DH is bi—I could be bi!” 

Bucky huffs as he starts pulling cocktail glasses and ingredients out onto the butcher’s block kitchen island. “You can’t be _bi_ , Sam, my whole brand is based on being the gay Martha Stewart, it’s a whole _thing_ —”

“Wow Bucky,” Sam says, dripping sarcasm, “that seems really reductive—”

“I— _you seem really reductive_!” Bucky snarls. Not his best comeback. Sam smirks. 

“So glad you’re the one keeping it all together Barnes, you’re so right,” Sam says, then puts on an annoying high pitched voice, “Ooooh Captain America what big _shoulders_ you have, maybe I should design a dumb centerpiece inspired by your flaxen hair sometime if you wanna come around and model—”

“Shut _up_!” Bucky says (though if he’s honest it’s not exactly like he _wouldn’t_ do that). “Would I probably sing God Bless America into my pillow if a guy like that wanted to dick me down? Yes, but can I also—”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Sam says shaking his head, “can you _please_ spare me the details of your sexual preferences—”

“Spare you, _lover_?” Even under his dark complexion Bucky can see Sam’s face flame up at that, and Bucky grins mercilessly as he starts muddling mint into the glasses. “Don’t you think it’s important to know that my imaginary perfect husband is a top? Because—”

Sam apparently loses all ability for rational argument at this point, instead opting for a classic and covering his ears with his hands. 

“La la la, I can’t hear you, don’t want to know, la la—”

Bucky reaches out and slaps one of Sam’s hands away from his ear with the sopping bundle of mint stems. Sam splutters, and Bucky looks back innocently, “How about now? Can you hear okay if—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence before Sam’s hand snaps out, flicking Bucky hard on the ear. 

“Ow!” Bucky exclaims, outraged, clapping his hand to the stinging earlobe. “Quit it—you—”

Sam jabs him in the side, and Bucky stops protesting to defend his honor. Soon they’re grappling in an undignified but utterly silent sort of slap-and-pinch fight. 

“Oof, knock it off you _baby_ ,” Sam hisses when Bucky lands a good little smack to his cheek. 

“ _You_ knock it off, you started—”

“Hey, is there anything I can…” A different voice speaks into the room as the kitchen door swings open, and Sam and Bucky freeze in place. 

Steve is standing in the doorway, face showing just the edges of some confusion, and Bucky’s not sure how much he saw. He and Sam spring away from each other guiltily. And then just as quickly spring back together, Bucky putting his arm around Sam’s shoulders and both of them hitching up a probably-not-convincing smile. 

“…is there anything I can help with?” Steve finishes. 

“Oh, um…” Bucky starts, looking down at his half-made tray of cocktails. “We—I’ve probably got it handled.” 

“Yeah, sorry for distracting you _babe_ ,” Sam says. 

“Don’t worry about it babe.” 

“Think you can finish up without me babe?”

Bucky squeezes Sam’s shoulder a tad too hard at the final babe, and Sam winces—turning it into a pained-but-hopefully-reads-as-besotted smile. 

“Yeah I got it. Be out in a minute.” 

“Pepper and Tony were just talking and would really like to go down into town for a little while, look around some of the antique shops.” Steve says mildly, eyes still going back and forth between Sam and Bucky curiously. “If you guys are up for that.” 

“I am! I definitely, definitely want to go antiquing. My favorite pastime.” Sam says at once, pulling away from Bucky’s arm and the reach of pinching fingers. 

“I should probably get a start on dinner actually,” Bucky says, truthfully. “You guys go though, it’s a great little town.” He’s pretty sure that’s true, from the one grocery shopping and craft supplies trip he made when they arrived. 

“Oh, do you think—” Steve starts, face lighting up, “do you think you might let me stay and help actually? With dinner? I could even just watch, I’m just really curious—you can totally say no—”

“No!” Bucky says, quickly clarifying, “no I mean I wouldn’t uh, say no. To help.” 

“Thank you! I am really excited to see you in action,” Steve says, smiling happily. 

“He’s a real boy wonder alright,” Sam says, turning slightly so Steve can’t see his expression as he makes mocking kissy faces at Bucky. 

“Sam! Take the drinks out!” Bucky exclaims, then softens his face best he can, “I mean, do you mind, angel?” 

Sam grins like he’s won the argument, picking up the tray. Bucky plucks two of the drinks off before Sam can leave, giving what he hopes is an expressive look. 

Steve turns to Bucky with an earnest, hopeful expression. “So, where do we start?”

 

It takes a few minutes for Bucky to stop feeling flustered from Steve potentially having walked in on Sam in a compromising situation, and not the kind that supports their fiction at all. Maybe some husbands do have slap fights over their trays of fancy cocktails, but Bucky doesn’t really think that’s the kind of relationship he’s painted between him and Darling Husband. But Steve doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t look perturbed or suspicious or anything, so eventually Bucky untenses his shoulders and lets himself enjoy having another person be interested in his work. 

“Okay, so the menu for tonight,” Bucky says, pulling his binder in front of him on the island as Steve ties a ruffled floral apron around his neck. “We’re doing soup, salad, and sammies—kicked up a notch as per usual to be as instagram worthy as possible. Or Home and Hearth worthy I guess which is even more wild—but anyway. Citrus, arugula, and ricotta salad, prosciutto and more ricotta for the paninis because I love ricotta, and a spicy pumpkin chestnut soup. How are your knife skills?” 

“Um, for cooking?” Steve asks, leaning his elbows on the island across from Bucky, “Mostly unpracticed. But I can handle one without cutting myself and I’m sure I can figure it out.” 

“Uh…huh,” Bucky says, considering the implications of Steve’s non-cooking based knife skills. He glances down at Steve’s big hands—then shoves that thought away for a more appropriate moment to ponder later. Maybe in the shower.

“In that case I’ll get you going on the pumpkin because that doesn’t have to be pretty, just roughly all about the same size for roasting. I’ll do the citrus because it has to look nice,” he finishes with a wink, moving to pull produce out of the big double fridge. The kitchen in this place had really been the main selling point when Sam sent him some options of houses that would fit the bill aesthetically—it’s set up for chef-worthy cooking and it’s light years away from how Bucky normally has to do things in his tiny apartment. 

They both pull up stools and set to chopping, Bucky pausing to turn on his vintage Christmas spotify playlist for some ambiance. He notes that Steve’s movements are in fact quite deft and capable once Bucky explains how to remove the rind and size the pumpkin right for the oven. 

“So uh…you do a lot of knife fighting in the marines?” he asks after a few moments, unable to help himself. 

Steve ducks his head, eyes still on his work, and smiles. It’s a gesture Bucky noted earlier in the day, a sheepish little motion incongruous with the striking looks of the person making it. 

“No—not exactly,” Steve says with a little chuckle. “It’s just one of those—you know how they say being in the military is a lot of hurry-up-and-wait? We end up learning a lot of pointless things during the wait part. Dicking around with knives just being one of them. I know a pretty decent number of card tricks too. And I can play a pretty mean hand of poker.” 

Bucky eyes the pink blush on Steve’s cheeks, highly doubtful of that. 

“Can you?” he asks, teasingly, taking a sip of his drink. 

Steve blushes harder, proving Bucky’s point and reaching up to rub his neck self-consciously. “Okay, it’s true I have a terrible poker face. But I _can_ cheat at poker pretty well.” 

Bucky gives a startled, delighted laugh. “We _gotta_ get you to play with Tony later then, that guy deserves to be taken for all he’s worth. We’ll see how long it takes him to notice.” 

The oven dings behind him to let him know it’s done preheating, so Bucky moves from the island to spread the chestnuts out on a baking sheet, popping them in. When he turns back he sees Steve watching appreciatively. 

“When those are done I’ll set you shelling them—it’s the worst part but that’s what a sous chef is for,” he jokes. 

“How did you get started with all this?” Steve asks. 

Bucky balks a little. Steve is so genuinely interested, the thought of straight out lying—giving him the backstory he’d invented for if he gets asked by Pepper or Tony—but the entire truth also isn’t an option. Plus Bucky doesn’t really want to crush Steve’s opinion of him entirely, even if he could. 

He sighs, opting for something in the middle. “Well more or less one day I was reading some blog and I thought—I could do this, you know? Moms in the heartland don’t have a monopoly at being good at this.” He shrugs self-deprecatingly. “Didn’t really expect other people to agree with me…quite so much.” 

Steve laughs. “So I guess that answers the question of how you ended up with ‘thatchery’ in the title if it started out as satire that accidentally turned real on you. I’ve always wondered since that’s not like…actually a word.” 

Bucky snorts, a little surprised and pleased. “Yeah actually, I basically spent two minutes thinking of the most hipster ampersand combo I could but—joke’s totally on me, that’s my brand now. People probably think I’m an idiot.” 

“Nah, I doubt anybody even questions it.” Steve says, generously. “But I actually meant how did you get into like…all of this?” He sweeps his hand broadly around the kitchen, Bucky’s binder and meticulously organized work stations, the labeled sets of ingredients and supplies for upcoming meals, and even the decorations because no room should be left out of holiday cheer. “You must have been decent at it before if you could take it up on a whim and end up here.” 

“Oh!” Bucky was less prepared for that question. Luckily there’s no harm in answering this one honestly. “Yeah I guess I always liked this sort of thing. My mom was big on family dinners when I was a kid—6 p.m. on the dot every weeknight we were all at the table unless we got extra special permission to be somewhere else. My sisters live all over the place now and my parents are like, half-retired to Ann Arbor so we don’t really…but I like the idea that maybe people make my stuff, and get together with their family or friends or whatever because they want to make it special.” 

“So were you always creative then? Did you do all the décor and things before you started blogging about it?”

Bucky laughs. “Let’s just say I was a big dreamer and admirer for a long time but I’ve learned a thing or two or a hundred since I actually started putting it into practice.” 

He shakes his head, looking down at the bread he’s now slicing for sandwiches, thinking of the many trials and errors when he first got started—he’d scoffed about how it was so easy to make all that hipster shit people fawn over before he’d had a few total failures to teach him a bit of respect for his craft. 

Bucky trades the tray of chestnuts in the oven for the tray of pumpkin and sets Steve to shelling—though he actually does jump in and help too when he’s got the paninis all set up. 

They work for a while in companionable silence, Bucky making them both a fresh drink when they’ve finished their first ones. The smell of roasting pumpkin and the gentle cracking of chestnut shells is a bit hypnotic, especially with Bing Crosby crooning over it all in the background— _I’ll be home for Christmas, you can plan on me, I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams_. 

Bucky sighs and takes a sip of pomegranate mint julep. Is there anyone alive who can listen to Bing Crosby without catching some feels? If so Bucky doesn’t want to meet them. He lets himself bask in the warmth and homeyness for a minute. 

There are reasons—if ones he chooses not to examine too closely on a very regular basis—why this was the life he invented for himself, aside from the blog-appropriate aesthetics. And now, strangely transported into his own imaginary world come to life, it’s harder to push aside those reasons. The things he covets about this kind of home, cooking dinner for friends with someone he…

Bucky shakes his head. Darling Husband is still very much a distant reality, regardless of how tangible the other pieces may feel all cozied up in this gorgeous farmhouse kitchen. He glances over at Steve, looking soft and flushed in his grey sweater with the heat from the oven warming the room. He really is gorgeous, Bucky allows himself to notice. Currently in a completely different way from the imposingly handsome and noble war hero who’d walked in the door. This Steve is just as devastating because he looks comfortable and relaxed…he looks at home. 

A camera shutter draws Bucky’s mind back to the present, and his eyes to the doorway with a snap. At some point Natasha had managed to creep in entirely without noise. Bucky blushes instantly, wondering what on earth kind of look was on his face just now that she might have captured. 

“We’re back,” she says, unnecessarily. Her tone is perfectly level, but somehow its utter lack of inflection feels ominous itself—it’s the kind of voice that makes you wonder _what does she know?_ But that’s probably Bucky’s guilty conscience talking. 

“Awesome,” Bucky says, ginning up a cheery smile. “Dinner in about…twenty minutes? Send Sam in wouldja? I’ll tell him how to set the table.” 

The corner of Natasha’s mouth quirks up, and on her otherwise neutral face the expression speaks volumes. 

“Sam said you’d say that, and he told me to ‘tell Bucky we bought the full inventory of three different antique stores so I gotta handle that.’” Natasha says, dryly. Then she adds, “Sorry.” Immediately she lifts the camera again and starts snapping pictures of their work in progress, like she’d never actually been an active part of a conversation in the first place. 

Bucky sighs, “Okay then. Guess I’ll—” he looks down at his half-made salad dressing, and over at the pumpkin cooling on the stovetop still waiting to be soup-ified, a little helpless. He usually doesn’t have help with any of this, but he usually also doesn’t have anybody waiting on the results either. 

“I’ll do it,” Steve says, dusting off his hands on his apron before he lifts it off over his head. “Just tell me how you want it and I’ll do my best—I know how you like the table settings arranged at least, so I’ve already got a head start.” He smiles, raising his eyebrows expectantly. 

Bucky groans internally. He _would_. At this precise moment Bucky isn’t sure he wants Steve’s help. He kind of wants Steve to go away for a minute, or say something douchey like about healthcare of immigrants maybe, or perhaps put some sort of paper bag on his head. He wants to not think about how Steve is a much better imaginary husband than Sam even though he has no idea there’s even a competition for that because he really thinks Sam’s the real deal. Bucky would like all of those things, or another bourbon—stat. 

But it’s 6:15 and Bucky _could_ use the extra pair of hands, and Steve’s the only one offering. 

“Okay,” Bucky says, resignedly, “here’s what you’ll need…”


	4. Our Cheeks are Nice and Rosy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve sets the table, and then has feelings.
> 
> (Bit of a shorter one today just a heads up!)

Steve has to give it to Sam—it really _does_ look like the three of them are bringing home enough purchases to stock their own antiques store. 

He watches out of the corner of his eye as he sets forks, spoons, knives, and glassware all in their proper places at the big farmhouse table in the dining area off the living room. In point of fact he can’t actually see Sam, who looks like the mouse from Cinderella with wrapped packages stacked so high in his arms that his face is blocked as he staggers to pile them on an armchair. Pepper is dressed all in white as seems to be her go-to, and her cheeks are glowing from the snow making her look like some kind of winter fairy queen. She smacks Tony’s hand away from a large shape he’s just set inside the door. 

“ _Tony_ ,” she says, “you don’t buy a colonial table to _paint_ it.”

Tony huffs, “But it’s all…banged up.” 

“It’s three hundred years old Tony, that’s the _point_.” 

Steve chuckles, shaking his head, and moves around the table to set out the rest of his handful of silverware. He steps back, admiring his work. Steve’s pretty proud of himself—he doesn’t think this table would be out of place on Thatchery&Sprig if it gets photographed tonight. He hopes he’s done justice to Bucky’s vision anyway. Bucky had seemed a little stretched pulling everything together, and obviously the guy must be a perfectionist. 

It occurs to Steve that while this week is basically a dream holiday for himself, their presence and the fact that Bucky’s next career move hinges on it isn’t a very good Christmas gift to Bucky. For all Steve knows, maybe Bucky and Sam usually have super low-key holidays and Bucky just saves all the fancy stuff for the blog. 

But it really does look magical, Steve thinks. The low, warm light of the dining room and the flickering candles set in Bucky’s centerpiece glint off the glassware and silver, flickering in a beguiling way that makes the whole scene look too cozy to be real. Steve does another circuit around the table filling all the water glasses, and then opens a bottle each of the red and white wine Bucky had set out earlier on the sideboard. 

Bucky backs into the room through the kitchen’s swinging door, hands full of the platter of pressed sandwiches. He sets it on the buffet alongside the wine and turns, and Steve waits a little more anxiously than he thinks could reasonably be termed cool for Bucky’s reaction. 

Bucky’s face melts instantly in something like relief, and he turns with a grin to Steve. 

“It looks _perfect_ ,” he says sincerely. Then to Steve’s immense surprised Bucky pulls him into a quick but firm hug. 

And gosh if _that_ isn’t nice. Steve thinks fleetingly that he would set tables and do dishes every day for the rest of his _life_ if it made someone like Bucky that happy on the regular. 

“Seriously, thank you,” Bucky says, pulling away. “No idea how I would’ve pulled this off on my own tonight.” 

“I—anytime,” Steve says, trying not to sound too irrationally breathless about it. 

At that moment the other three traipse in, and Bucky drops the hand that had stayed resting on Steve’s shoulder. Bucky looks away with a smile that Steve isn’t convinced is quite as real as the one he’d gotten just moments before. 

“So shopping was a success?” Bucky asks cheerfully. 

“Was it!” Tony says, finding his place card and immediately stepping around both of them to fill his wine glass. “Pepper bought all kinds of old stuff. Some only sort of old stuff that looked pretty nice and wasn’t expensive and then some _really_ old stuff which looks like shit and was incredibly expensive while also not being functional at all! It was a good time.” 

Pepper just rolls her eyes. “I’m working on an idea about incorporating vintage Americana into other more modern style modes—maybe that’s something you’d be interested in collaborating on?” She asks Bucky, who gives a non-committal smile. “We’ve got time to suss out what you’re most interested in later, but think about it. You guys really live in antiques paradise out here.” 

“We sure do, don’t we honey?” Bucky says, moving around to Sam. 

“Mmph,” says Sam, following Tony’s example and pouring a healthy glass of wine. 

“Bring home anything new for me?” Bucky asks. 

“Not this time around, sugar plum, but don’t forget Christmas is only four days off.” Sam says. 

“True, true. We both know you’re the most thoughtful gift giver.” Bucky’s tone is light and teasing, and Steve once again has that sense that there’s a joke there, just between them. It makes him feel something of an unexpected pang that he couldn’t quite name if you paid him. 

Then Bucky puts a hand on Sam’s cheek, planting a kiss on his mouth. It’s not anything glamorous, more like the kind of routine “hello/goodbye” gesture Steve’s sure they must do all the time. Which is why it’s funny, and he’s not sure if he’s completely imagining it, when it seems like Sam steps back very quickly, a just visible blush on his dark cheeks. 

“Anything we can help with now?” Sam asks, backing away toward the kitchen. 

There’s a small, knowing smile on Bucky’s face, and Steve would give anything to know what that was about. 

Then he chastises himself, and very deliberately looks away as he realizes he’s been watching their interaction _way_ too intently for a minute now. 

“I’ll get the salads,” Steve offers, pushing past Sam through the kitchen door before anyone else can say anything. 

“I’ll help him,” he hears Bucky say, “you all have a seat and we’ll get started.” 

Too late though, by the time Bucky steps back into the kitchen Steve’s hands are full with all six salad plates, waitress style. 

Bucky raises his eyebrows and grins—and there it is again, Steve’s pretty sure, a real smile that’s much more scrunched around his eyes and nose than his “being pleasant for important company” one. 

“Impressive, Rogers. That a military boredom skill?”

Steve shakes his head, smiling too. “Nah, I bussed tables at a diner in high school. Gotta hustle if you want tips in New York City.”

Something flicks over Bucky’s face, gone too quickly to read. He laughs, “Sounds very true. Guess I’ll grab the soup tureen then and we can manage all in one trip—anybody would think we’re a well-oiled machine with this kind of efficiency.” 

Bucky arranges the plates of food on the table before he lets anyone eat, so that Natasha can take photos of it all. After a few snaps she tells them to pretend that they all like each other, which deputizes Tony to begin telling a string of truly absurd and absolutely filthy jokes that get them all roaring helplessly with laughter. Finally smirking, Natasha has to command him to stop because they’re laughing _too_ hard and it makes their faces look weird. 

Once she releases them and takes her seat they fall on the food with relish. It’s all good—obviously. Steve catches Bucky out of the corner of his eye watching all of them eat more than he remembers to take any bites himself. But he looks satisfied and pleased at the reception. 

After dinner, Bucky urges everybody to retire again to the fireplace for a nightcap, while Steve insists on doing the dishes. 

Tony makes fun of him for “sucking up to the hosts” which maybe isn’t entirely off-base unfortunately, but Steve also just wants a minute alone to regroup. 

He’d kept an eye out during dinner as Bucky and Sam held hands briefly on the table top. And when Sam had pulled his away with a pointed look at Bucky that made the other man roll his eyes a bit. 

And now Steve needs to have a stern chat with himself. 

Because Steve knows what he’s doing and it’s _not_ cool. 

Okay, he has a crush on Bucky. 

It would be dumb not to admit that to himself—to admit that he’s had a crush on J.B. for a while in that way that you can have a crush on someone you’ve never met and probably will never meet but it’s nice to imagine being with. 

But now they have met and more importantly, Darling Husband is not a faceless intangible part of Bucky’s life that Steve can choose to ignore—he’s a very real person that Bucky’s in a relationship with. And nitpicking all of their interactions to figure out…what? If things aren’t good between them? God, Steve has absolutely no intention of being that person. It’s definitely better to nip that in the bud like, now. 

Even if…even if they aren’t good, if the little weirdnesses Steve’s observed are really there…Steve is _so_ not the kind of person who would take that as an advantage to exploit. He’s never had any interest in participating in infidelity from either side and he’s not going to start even entertaining it now. 

And _besides_ , he thinks as he takes an aggressive scrubber to the baking sheet, he’s almost definitely imagining whatever he thinks he saw between Bucky and Sam. Steve knows—the whole world knows—that Sam isn’t big on public displays of affection, he values privacy, and here he is putting up with all of them in his space for the week of Christmas. Of _course_ he’s probably crankier than usual. 

All in all, Steve’s feeling more settled by the time he sets the final pot on the drying rack, and hits “start” on the dishwasher. He’s fairly receptive to his own stern talking-to’s, luckily. 

It’s reasonable, he thinks, that he needed to recalibrate a little bit here. He’s suddenly found himself living in what is essentially one of his favorite calming escapist fantasies (because he’s a dork and fantasizes about dinner parties and cooking and calling someone darling). Steve’s been reading Bucky’s blog for a long time and it created a false sense of intimacy. Of course he had to check himself quickly once the fantasy part started crashing up against the reality. The reality being that he’s spending a nice Christmas in a stranger’s home and then he’ll never see said stranger or stranger’s husband again. Which is fine. 

Steve rolls his head, letting his neck crack once satisfyingly and squaring his shoulders as he re-enters the living room. 

On the couches surrounding the fireplace, Pepper is lying wrapped up with her back to Tony’s chest, Natasha is curled like a very secretive and aloof cat in a corner, and Bucky has his arm around Sam’s shoulders as they all chat and sip at their drinks. 

Bucky sees Steve first, slipping his arm away from Sam’s shoulders, rising to walk toward him. He gestures at the bar cart. 

“Drink, Steve? Only the best for a dedicated dish washer.”

Steve swallows. Okay, maybe his stern talking-to didn’t take effect exactly all at once. Bucky’s hair is kind of mussed and he has a slight flush on his cheeks from sitting near the fire and whatever amber liquid is sloshing in his tumbler. And he’s a damn liar if he stands here and tells himself he’s put the crush to rest completely. 

Steve shakes his head, hitching up a smile. This might take a few more minutes to lock down.

“Think I’ll—” he starts, then clears his throat, “think I’ll turn in early. Read a little bit. See you all tomorrow.” 

Then he turns on his heel, marching himself down the opposite hallway in what he is absolutely terming a tactical retreat and _not_ running away to lock himself in his room. Steve’s a Medal of Honor recipient after all. 

He wouldn’t run away and hide from something as small and easily dealt with as a _crush_. 

Would he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You GUYS I love all of you!! You are making me and this fic so happy and warm and cozy with your comments. 
> 
> If you are enjoying and feel the urge to give it a share, here's the [rebloggable post](http://odette-and-odile.tumblr.com/post/180115316433/if-only-in-my-dreams-steve-x-bucky-t) on tumblr :)


	5. Walking in a Winter Wonderland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the fifth day of Christmas my fanfic gave to me: Natasha stirring shit up for reasons as yet unclear and some more of Sam and Bucky doing what they do :)
> 
> Hope you like it!

At 7:45 the next morning Sam’s alarm rings at the same time that it has each of the three that he and Bucky have already been here so far. 

Which is how Bucky knew to set _his_ alarm to vibrate at 7:35 so that when Sam yawns himself awake, Bucky is already propped up on one elbow gazing down at him. 

“You’re so beautiful in the morning,” Bucky says, doing his absolute best to keep a straight face as Sam just blinks at him several times. 

“Mm’I…having…a nightmare?” Sam asks after a moment, rubbing his eyes. “Are you watching me _sleep_?”

Bucky snorts, all of this going even better than he’d hoped when he thought of it yesterday, but pulls it back in quickly, smiling down at Sam with a sickly sweet smitten expression. 

“I can’t help it, you’re just so lovely when you’re unconscious…not talking or looking at me or anything, so quiet…”

Sam lets out something between a groan and a sob of annoyance, yanking his pillow fully over his head to block out Bucky’s face. Bucky shakes a little, laughing. 

“You know you tipped from newlywed into serial killer at the end of that, right? You heard yourself lose the path to cutesy and end up on the expressway to creepy?” Sam says, muffled from under his pillow. “It’s too damn early for this,” he complains. 

“Oh really!” Bucky asks triumphantly, Sam having walked neatly into his snare. “Because _I_ seem to remember somebody on morning number one giving somebody else a lecture about how ‘this isn’t actually a holiday Bucky’ and ‘this is a work trip there’s no excuses for sleeping past eight, Bucky’” Bucky says, giving his all to his most unflattering impression of Sam. “Was that me who said that or…no wait, somehow I feel like it wasn’t!” 

“So you’re watching me _sleep_ as retribution?? Have you been planning this since then?” Sam’s outraged voice comes higher pitched than normal still buried under his defensive pillow. 

“I was trying to figure out if I could see how your nose makes that sound—couldn’t ascertain anyth—mmph!” 

The sentence is cut off as Sam hurls the pillow hard at Bucky’s face instead. But as Bucky fully believes that violence is the last resort of the desperate when it comes to arguments, he takes it as a win. 

Bucky quickly finds himself assaulted by a series of soft flying objects as Sam lobs all of the decorative pillows that adorned their bed when they arrived at him without pause. Unfortunately they are conveniently located to serve as projectiles currently since they were all lined up as a barricade down the middle of the bed. 

Bucky had walked in the second night, after their day of preparations for the arrival of Stark and crew, to see Sam industriously dividing the bed in two with a wall of pillows that read things like “sweet dreams are made of this” and “all I want for Christmas is you.” 

“Um is this like…a homophobic thing, weirdo? It’s a king bed there’s plenty of space.” Bucky had ribbed him around a mouthful of toothbrush. 

Sam had stopped building his fortifications to give him a truly impressive glare. 

“This is _not_ a homophobic thing or I would’ve done it last night and _also_ probably wouldn’t be even pretending to be married to a man, dumbass,” he’d grumbled. “This is a ‘it turns out you neglected to mention you’re an aggressive sleep cuddler’ thing because I shoved you off of me like five times last night because I kept waking up thinking I was being suffocated.” 

“Oops,” Bucky had said, grinning. “Yeah I do that. Sorry.” He wasn’t that sorry. Sam had talked him into this whole mess, he deserves some inconveniences out of it. 

Bucky has been told though that he’s the most intense sleep snuggler possible. Full limb engagement. 

So they’d tried out the barricade last night. 

“Sleep okay?” Bucky asks, after Sam runs out of ammo and he catches his breath laughing. 

Sam sighs, scrubbing his hand over his hair and swinging his legs to the floor. “Better without you latched onto me like some kind of octopus, thanks,” he grouses. He sighs again, looking over his shoulder at Bucky. “Honestly I was sacked. Stark is…a lot, huh?” 

Bucky lets out an “ooph” of agreement. 

“Guess we uh…should have expected that? From reading like _anything_ ever written about him. Yet it still comes as a surprise in person.” 

Bucky chuckles. “I one hundred percent agree.” 

“You didn’t even see him in the antiques places, I think one of those ladies might have put her shop up for sale the moment we left and fled the state in fear of him ever coming back,” Sam says with a sideways grin. “I repented at that moment of not helping you with dinner and that was my punishment.”

Bucky thinks about the pleasant couple of hours he had spent with Steve in the kitchen, cooking and chatting just the two of them…he’s not mad Sam ditched him.

“Well, one day down three and a half to go,” Bucky says, reaching for his phone. 

“You’re shockingly chipper this morning,” Sam says, eyeing Bucky dubiously as he gathers up his clothes for the day. 

Bucky shrugs, saying lightly “It’s a nice day out and lunch is already in the slow cooker so I don’t have to do anything with it.” 

“Mmhmm,” Sam says, a sly smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “And the goo-goo eyes you and Captain Honorable were making when we got home yesterday—they got _nothing_ to do with it?” 

Bucky scrunches his nose and takes the opportunity to hurl a pillow of his own. “I would _never_ betray you like that, my husband! How dare you insinuate!” 

“Alright alright I believe you!” Sam exclaims, covering his head with his arms and retreating into the bathroom. “I’m gonna shower before you so I don’t have to wait for your hour-long hair process to be done before I can—”

Bucky flings another pillow, but Sam’s already slammed the door of the bathroom shut. 

 

Bucky has to admit (though not actually _to_ Sam, he’d rather die), but he does end up glad he got up early enough to get a full cup of coffee in him before Tony rolls into the kitchen.

“What’s on the schedule today?” he demands, “Something adorable I _hope_.” 

Pepper sweeps in behind him, looking as flawless as ever with her hair braided up into a sleek crown over her white cashmere sweater.

“Ease up Tony, or we’ll have to put you in time out.”

Tony pouts comically as he pours two mugs of coffee, but Bucky notes that he doesn’t actually look that put out about the idea. 

They’re joined shortly by Steve, not from his bedroom but from the outdoors where he’s apparently already gone _running_ and is hectically pink and glowy from exercising in the snow. Bucky makes a sour face into his coffee cup as Steve claps Tony on the shoulder, grinning, and wishes them all a very cheery “good morning!” 

But it explains why there was already coffee made when Bucky got out here. Check number there’s-no-point-keeping-track in the column for Steve being the perfect man. All Bucky wants in his life is to wake up to coffee already made by someone else. Preferably by someone very hot and in love with him, but whatever. 

Fortunately Sam, if not a morning person to the apparent level that Steve is, is still enough of one to be better functioning than Bucky (who’s honestly regretting now even the ten minutes of extra sleep he lost to his prank this morning). 

“We were thinking sledding today,” Sam says, easily slipping into the conversation (and physically between Bucky and Stark, which Bucky feels is wise). “How’s that sound to you all?”

“Question,” Tony says, “do you name your sleds and if so can mine be cooler than Rosebud?”

Sam points at him genially across the counter. “Our sleds are mostly plastic and unnamed but you can absolutely go for it if that floats your boat.” 

The hill where they take the sleds is one that Bucky and Sam had scoped out earlier in the week while planning photoshoot-worthy things to do with their guests that also would make it seem like this is actually their neighborhood. It’s not a long walk from the house—the slope is big enough to be fun but not crowded with anybody else for the day. It looks like it snowed again during the night too, because the blanket covering the street and houses and trees is fresh and unblemished. 

The group crunches through the uncleared street, remarking on the pristine blue of the sky overhead. Whatever storm dropped the fresh flakes is gone now, leaving the day sunny and crisp. Natasha trails them a little bit as ever, taking photos, occasionally running up ahead of them to do the same. 

Sam reaches out and grabs Bucky’s hand with a wry smirk—they both know they need to be a little more on it than they were yesterday. 

They do a couple of runs down the hill, slipping all over the place on the untouched snow and whooping like kids as they hurtle around trees. They’ve got two doubles and one single sled with them (courtesy of the airbnb actually), so everybody takes turns—Tony of course making things competitive as soon as he can. 

“Me and Chili here are gonna smoke you guys,” he says gleefully, hopping onto the red single sled he’d immediately swiped when he saw it, calling _dibs!_ before naming it after Pepper. Human Pepper just chuckles affectionately. 

Eventually Pepper has to step away to take a phone call, and Tony takes “Chili” further up a little ways where the hill gets steeper, muttering to himself about trajectories. 

“You guys wanna help me try out something different?” Natasha’s silky voice startles the three men milling left amongst the pine trees at the top of the run. Bucky’s standing with one arm around Sam’s shoulders, which he suspects Sam is putting up with for added warmth as much as for the sake of their cover. Bucky gets it, he’d kind of like to crawl into Steve’s coat and just hibernate there through the winter. 

Bucky’s pretty sure it’s the first Natasha has spoken all day, but there’s a twitch to one side of her mouth that he finds unaccountably ominous. 

“Uh…what you got in mind?” Bucky asks, flicking a look at Sam. 

“Kinda want to see if we can get a real action shot—like you’d get with a go-pro, but on this,” she lifts her expensive looking camera to illustrate. 

“What do you want to do?” Steve asks. 

Natasha pauses, considering the hill—it’s a gesture that seems oddly performative, like she’s baiting them. 

“Well…I think if one of you fellas would let me ride with you, we could go down first and I’ll try shooting over your shoulder—the other two follow and I think I can get some pretty fun shots of you in action.” 

Oh. That isn’t as bad as Bucky feared. He nods, and sees Steve doing the same. “Sure! Let’s try it.” 

“Great,” Natasha says, mouth quirking up even farther. “Sam, you’re the steadiest on the sled so I think I’d better go with you—Steve and Bucky can follow for photos.” 

“Oh…kay,” Bucky says. 

Sam clears his throat pointedly while Natasha crunches over to arrange the sleds. 

“I will _kill you_ in your sleep,” Sam hisses into Bucky’s ear. 

“Joke’s on you,” Bucky hisses back, “I don’t sleep anymore I just watch you remember—” Bucky breaks off at once as Natasha turns back toward them, waving Sam over, and he pulls his arm off of Sam’s shoulders. 

“Sam, you hop on first and I’m gonna sit facing you and shoot over your shoulder—think it’ll be steadiest that way,” Natasha says, waving her hand for Sam to climb onto his sled. 

Sam shoots Bucky a desperate, pleading look as he realizes what this actually means—Natasha intending to climb into his lap. 

Too bad, Bucky thinks, he has his own problems. 

Bucky clears his throat. “Um…front or back?” he asks Steve, cringing immediately at how much that _definitely_ sounds like innuendo. 

Steve’s cheeks are a little pinker than they’d been a minute ago from the cold alone. 

“I uh—no preference. You wanna steer or no?” Steve asks, not looking at Bucky but apparently studying the precise route of the hill like he’s strategizing even though they’ve been down it half a dozen times already. 

“Depends,” Bucky says evenly, “no chance you’re going to Ethan Frome me if I let you drive this thing right?” 

Steve’s forehead creases in question, and Bucky grins. 

“Ethan Frome? You didn’t have to read that one in high school? The star-crossed lovers try to go out in a blaze of glory by sledding accident—unsurprisingly it doesn’t work.” 

Steve laughs. “You know I think I’d remember that one—but no, no plans for that.” He shrugs, and then gives Bucky a teasing, cheeky smile, “I _am_ also trained in combat driving so I feel pretty confident in my ability to pilot this piece of molded plastic if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

Bucky’s laugh puffs out of him in a little cloud of white in the cold air. “In that case Captain, by all means take command of the vehicle.” 

Steve seats himself at the front of the sled, one foot on the ground to keep it still while Bucky gets on behind him. There’s really no help for the fact that kneeling in back his legs are _going_ to be splayed on either side of Steve, and that there’s nowhere for his hands to rest but Steve’s shoulders. 

“Ready?” Natasha asks from beside them. 

Bucky suppresses a snort—Natasha is fully straddling Sam, knees on either side of his hips and camera steadied on his shoulder. Sam’s expression is very fixed, Bucky _almost_ feels bad for him. 

“Ready,” Bucky says with a thumbs up. 

“Give me a count of three after we take off before you follow, and try to smile!” Natasha says, eye going to the camera. “Let’s do it!” 

Sam kicks off the sled, sending them sliding down over the lip of the hill. Three beats later, Steve does the same. 

Bucky could swear that this run is much faster than his previous ones today have been. Maybe it’s the added bulk of the two of them making them fly down the hill at such speed. Whatever it is, he hopes that it justifies the fact that his hands, which started out placed very gently on Steve’s shoulders, end up wrapped around Steve’s waist clutching at the front of Steve’s coat. Bucky’s chin is hooked over Steve’s shoulder, their faces close enough that Bucky can see the white air that accompanies Steve’s wild, happy laughter as they hurtle after Sam and Natasha. 

Natasha hops up as soon as she and Sam come to a halt at the bottom, eyes already glued to the screen of her camera as she clicks through whatever shots she got. 

Bucky is a little slower and more reluctant to let go. Steve’s back is warm and solid with him pressed up against it, and his hands are splayed over Steve’s chest in a way Bucky would very much like to replicate with fewer layers of clothing if he had the option. 

Steve sighs, raising his hand to brush his gloved fingers over Bucky’s, then giving one of them a squeeze. 

“That was fun,” Steve says, lightly, and Bucky releases his grip at last. 

It’s a reasonably passable way to dismiss a moment of prolonged contact which surely isn’t entirely friendly. But it’s an out that Bucky sadly knows he has to accept. He pats Steve’s shoulder as he stands. 

“Sure was. You get some good ones, Natasha?” 

Natasha flicks her gaze to Bucky, her red hair glinting as a vivid spot of color against the palette of white all around her. She nods with a small smile, and Bucky assumes that’s the most they’re going to get out of her about it. 

“Anybody else feel way too old for this all of a sudden?” Sam asks, climbing creakily off his own sled. “Man I remember doing this for _hours_ , ’til my mom literally had to beg us to come in. Imma need some advil when we get home.” 

“Yeah I’m ready for the advil and hot chocolate portion of the day, if you all are,” Bucky agrees, glaring sadly up the hill they’ll still have to climb a final time. “Guess we should probably figure out where Tony went so Pepper doesn’t get mad at us for losing him while we’re at it.” 

“I’ll find Tony, if you want to head back,” Natasha says, eyes still on her camera. “Get the hot chocolate or lunch or whatever started.” 

Oh, right. Bucky is the one who has to do all of that still. This whole housewife gig isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. 

“I’ll help,” Steve says. Because of course he does. 

Sam shoots Bucky a look. 

“In that case,” Sam says, smirking, “How about I help find Tony and Pepper?”

Bucky shoots Sam a look back. Sam doesn’t care. 

“Lunch already was smelling great in the slow cooker this morning,” Steve adds helpfully as Bucky turns back toward him so they can begin their trudge back to the house. 

Bucky groans internally. Steve may not have driven their sled into a tree—but he’s not positive Steve isn’t actively trying to kill him at this point one way or another.


	6. Later On We'll Conspire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little interlude for you with a fireside chat. 
> 
> (Whatever you do don't start singing "these are my confeeeeessions" in an Usher voice, as I did while writing it)
> 
> Fun fact, I looked up real life Medal of Honor recipients from recent years and there was in fact a Marine who got his after he straight up defied orders and risked his life to save a bunch of people and I thought that was awesome.

Although it was a fairly full day all things considered, Steve is still restless lying in bed that night. 

The thing is, Steve’s full days in normal life are usually grueling hours of training punctuated by awful food and catching sleep where he can when he can. So even though they’ve all been together doing stuff since he got back from his run, his body is still confused by the holiday schedule of fun activities, chatting, good food, and more good food. It doesn’t seem to think he needs any more rest yet. 

He sighs and rolls over, trying to punch his pillow into something lumpier to trick his brain into thinking it’s more familiar. 

Steve’s pretty sure he’s got to be the only one who didn’t fall asleep the instant his head hit the pillow—after lunch they’d watched Miracle on 34th Street and everyone had already seemed tired. Dinner was another elaborate affair—short rib ragu and papardelle, balsamic beet salads, and asiago eggplant stacks—which he’d done his best to be helpful in preparing. 

Bucky especially, Steve thinks, must have been ready to sack out. Out of the six of them Bucky had been on his feet more or less the whole day—between making snacks, switching out table decorations, pouring drinks, prepping dinner, cleaning from dinner, and setting up his supplies for tomorrow, Steve watched a little ashamedly as Bucky stayed on his toes to make everything perfect and relaxing for the rest of them. 

Steve rolls over with another disgruntled sigh, and finally gives up on trying to convince himself to fall asleep when it’s clearly not ready to happen. Maybe a cup of tea or something will help, he thinks, pulling on a sweater over his t-shirt and sweats. 

He pads down the hallway, frowning as he sees the soft glow of firelight still flickering around the living room. 

Steve pulls up short at the mouth of the hallway as he realizes that it’s Bucky’s face silhouetted against the fire, knees drawn up where he sits on the end of a sofa. Bucky’s expression is tired and a little creased, and he’s staring into the fireplace intently. Steve considers just turning quietly and going back to his room, he could read or something, but it’s too late. Bucky turns his head and spots Steve, face softening into a smile. 

“Hey,” Bucky says in a low voice, “couldn’t sleep?”

Steve shakes his head, stepping forward so Bucky doesn’t have to raise his voice. 

“You?” 

Bucky sighs. “Nah. Needed a little downtime between endeavors, ya know.” He puts his feet on the ground to stand, “You want a drink or something? I have some really good eggnog…”

“No!” Steve’s hands dart out to urge Bucky to stay seated, “You don’t—you’re waiting on us all hand and foot I don’t wanna bug you when you’re trying to decompress a minute. I can go…”

Bucky shakes his head, smiling, already moving to the bar cart. “I don’t mind. For you. Sit down.”

Steve’s heart skitters a bit at that, though he still feels guilty for imposing any further. But he also can’t bring himself to disobey, so he sits gingerly a reasonable distance from where Bucky was seated when he walked in. 

Bucky returns with two glasses, handing one off to Steve as he sinks down beside him. Steve tries not to read into the fact that Bucky doesn’t return to his previous seat, instead curling his legs up underneath himself on the cushion next to Steve. 

“Nothing fancy,” Bucky says, taking a sip. “Just my belief that after the age of twenty-one there’s no point drinking eggnog unless there’s some brandy in it.” He tilts his glass, considering. “And a little fresh nutmeg on top. That’s key.” 

Steve chuckles, taking a sip of his as well. “Well, as long as it’s nothing fancy.” 

They drink their eggnog in the quiet crackling of the fire for a little while, Steve eventually getting up to put another log on the fire. 

“You know,” he says as he sinks back down, “I wasn’t really thrilled about all the attention—from all the—you know. But I’m glad I guess if I had to put up with all the rest I got to wrap it up with something like this.” 

He peers deliberately at the half-drunk glass in his hand rather than at Bucky when he says it. 

“And…why is that?” Bucky asks, finally, and Steve risks a glance to find Bucky’s face a bit unreadable in the dim light. “About the attention, I mean. It’s so bad?”

Steve takes in a deep breath, considering. But there’s something about the warmth wrapped around them, the hush of the house and glint of flame that makes him answer honestly. It feels like a safe little bubble for the thoughts that he’s kept entirely to himself about the whole ordeal. 

“I—yeah, kind of,” he says, with a wry half smile. “It’s not—I know I’m lucky. And all of it is an honor, the medal and people’s…interest in me, the fact that I made it out alive to receive all of it in the first place. But…” he hesitates, “the thing is what—what happened over there, what I did—it’s not like it’s my favorite memory. Not the one I’d want to relive over and over in front of cameras if I got to pick.” 

Bucky is silent for a long moment.

“I…suppose I can imagine why that would be,” Bucky says at last. “I’m sorry. I can see how…how people’s interest in it would be a little unsettling.” 

“Yeah,” Steve says heavily. “And it’s not like—I mean I got to come home. The rest of my team is still deployed. I already feel…guilty, I guess. To top it off getting treated like some celebrity…”

“Mmm.” Bucky hums, thoughtfully. “Well, I don’t know much. And you can tell me to fuck off but—I’m gonna guess your friends don’t begrudge you a break. After what you did.” 

Steve clenches his jaw. It’s not that Bucky’s wrong, he just can’t quite make himself believe it. 

“You know the crazy thing about it?” Steve says. 

“No, what’s the crazy thing?” Bucky asks obligingly, his tone a bit dry. 

“The crazy thing is that I expected a court martial, not a medal. When it was done. We had absolute direct orders to hold position and let the hospital go—didn’t have enough manpower to take it safely without risking losing the half of the city we’d managed to secure. But I knew there were kids in there, and probably a couple of our own wounded still trying to—anyway. I only got a medal because it worked.”

“I didn’t…didn’t know that. The part about your orders, I mean,” Bucky says. 

“Yeah the corps doesn’t love emphasizing that they’re rewarding somebody for defying orders, best to shuffle that bit to the side as much as possible.”

Bucky smiles, “Definitely doesn’t jive with your ideal Company Man recruitment poster image they’ve got running for you.”

“Nah,” Steve snorts. “Sure doesn’t.” 

“Hm. Again I don’t…don’t know your team or whatever but—knowing you defied orders expecting to eat shit for it, I’m even more convinced they must think you hang the moon. I’d be pretty shocked if every one of them who saw what you did isn’t happy for you to get rewarded for it.”

“Maybe. You’re probably right.” Steve huffs a self-deprecating laugh. “Just feels like I shouldn’t be enjoying myself as much as I am.” 

“I…are you? Enjoying yourself?” 

Steve curses internally for steering this conversation into dangerous waters. Be cool, he chides himself. 

“I mean, yeah. This whole week is sort of unreal you know? Like a dream or a movie I accidentally wandered into somehow.” Steve aims for an even tone, but it still comes out hushed, like a confession. He supposes he can’t help it—it is one, of sorts. 

“Steve,” Bucky says, and the tone makes Steve look up again to meet Bucky’s gaze. Bucky’s forehead is furrowed, and he looks like he’s struggling over what he’s going to say. “It’s not…it is a bit of a dream, you know…it’s not as—as real as you might think—certain—”

Steve realizes he’s holding his breath, waiting for Bucky to finish the sentence, but Bucky shakes his head and doesn’t continue. 

“Sorry,” Bucky says, “I’m um—pretty tired. Just rambling. I should get to bed.” 

“Oh—yeah of course. Don’t stay up on my account. I’ll wash the glasses.” Steve says almost automatically, head still swimming as he tries to guess what Bucky might have been about to say. 

Bucky stands, then pauses, opening his mouth. But he shuts it again and squeezes Steve’s shoulder once before moving away. 

“Night Steve.” Bucky says, before disappearing up the other hallway and out of the ring of firelight. 

“Night Bucky,” Steve whispers, too late for Bucky to hear. 

He watches the fire until it dies, telling himself the whole time that whatever Bucky almost said probably wasn’t that big of a deal. But it doesn’t stop him from coming up with a host of possibilities until he’s nodding off on the couch anyway.


	7. Be Good for Goodness' Sake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Seven Bucky Barnes: 
> 
> Resolve? Crumbling.  
> Feelings? A Mess.  
> Decorating? On point. 
> 
> Also this fic is now upgraded to include real chapter titles because I realized I was missing out on a huge Christmas song reference opportunity and I am kicking myself!! So anyway they'll be titled from now on and you can check out the ones that have passed (big fan of Chapter One's new monicker heh heh).

Bucky’s chin feels a little wobbly when he lets himself into his and Sam’s room, and Sam eyes his face over the edge of his novel before dog-earing the corner with an aggrieved sigh and setting it on his nightstand. 

“What is it?” Sam asks in a beleaguered tone, as Bucky crawls onto the bed. 

“Can you just—can you just snuggle me for like, five minutes so I don’t go back out there and tell Steve everything?” Bucky asks, plaintively, giving Sam his saddest of sad faces. 

Sam groans, rolls his eyes, but removes the top three of the line of pillow barricade and waves Bucky over, looking put-upon. 

“I will put my arm around you for _five minutes_ —hands on top of the covers because this is a _bro_ snuggle only—and only because I think you’re touch-starved enough to climb in bed with _Tony_ at this point if you don’t get your way, much less Steve.”

Bucky lets Sam loop his arm around his neck, burying his face in Sam’s shoulder. 

“You’re a really good agent,” he says, muffled into Sam’s hoodie. 

Sam snorts. “Dude we’re sharing a bed, wearing matching wedding rings, and you’re crying into my shirt over a boy you like—if we can’t call ourselves friends at this point I don’t know _what_ the hell I’m doing with my life.” 

Bucky laughs, then pokes Sam in the side too lightly to actually annoy him. “I’m not _crying_.” 

“Okay, bravely holding back glassy tears and looking real sad—sorry, my bad. Anyway, what happened?”

“I—I almost told Steve. That we’re not really married. I came _this close_.” Bucky looks up at Sam who is surprisingly calm about this confession, “Can’t we just tell him you and I are in an open relationship or something?”

Sam brings the hand that isn’t perfunctorily tucked around Bucky’s shoulders to rub at his temple. 

“If you tell him we’re in an open relationship at this point he’s gonna think you’re inviting him to join us and I’m sorry but this is as much ‘platonic’ touching for the cause as I can handle.” 

Bucky snickers. He’s frankly shocked that Sam obliged him at all—he must’ve looked exceptionally forlorn and needy when he walked in. But just having an arm around him really is comforting. Damn it, Sam’s probably right—he totally is touch starved. 

“I wish I could just ‘cheat’ on you—but I don’t think Steve would go for it and to be honest I don’t think I could love a person willing to sleep with a married guy.” 

“You don’t love Steve,” Sam scoffs, bypassing the rest. 

“No-oo,” Bucky agrees reluctantly, “but I could! Maybe! And now how will I ever know?”

Sam heaves another sigh, withdrawing his arm from around Bucky and nudging him with his foot. “Scoot over,” he says. Bucky huffs, pretty sure his five minutes of contact aren’t up, but obeys anyway, scooting back to his side. Sam flops down, turning so that they’re face-to-face on their pillows.

“Look, I’m gonna level with you. This is a huge career break—for me _and_ you, but let’s take me out of it for a minute.” Sam says, hand under his cheek. “If you want to tell Steve the truth and maybe throw this whole thing out I can’t stop you, you’re an adult. You can do that. But is it worth your whole career for a guy you met like, one minute ago? Honestly?”

Bucky scrunches his face, considering the wisdom of that. He _hates_ it. 

“I think I liked it better when you were telling me you were going to kill me in my sleep,” Bucky says, petulantly. Sam laughs. 

“You know what I still might. I been chanting ‘fifteen percent, fifteen percent’ in my head all day like a soothing mantra but if you tell me you’re flushing this contract down the toilet I’m not sure what I’ll have keeping me from snapping on you.” 

“It’s just…ugh, it’s weird. I’m in a weird headspace. Heartspace. Whatever,” Bucky says, and Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Go on,” he says anyway. 

“He’s just… _here_ , doing dishes and looking like Michelangelo carved him just for me and living in this house which was basically conjured from my own very specific fantasy life.”

Sam blinks at him owlishly several times, taking that in. “Damn, you’re a mess. I can’t believe how successful and put-together I always thought you were—you’ve always been on my ‘good clients’ list! And yet somehow it’s like you saved up two years of complaining about sponsors emailing you to do _this_ instead.”

“If it helps I probably still won’t email you to complain about that…”

“Pfft. It does _not_.” Sam says, taking a deep breath. “Okay, I am going to drop some wisdom on you and then I am going to _sleep_ because I only have so much bandwidth for all of this nonsense when I also have to get up and pretend to live in fucking Connecticut. Got it?”

Bucky nods. 

“Okay. Look I told myself after walking out of your dumbass shoebox in Brooklyn that I was _not_ going to spend mental energy plumbing the depths of why you’d chosen this specific fictional life and what it says about you and all that. I’m definitely still not going to. But I think _you_ should, because it seems like having a little taste of it is throwing you completely out of whack and acting like a crazy person—unless you’re always like this and just manage to be exceptionally professional regarding the job—and it’s probably time to figure out what it is about this that you wanted bad enough to pretend on the internet that you already had it.” 

“I don’t…like that,” Bucky says, knowing that Sam has just said something unexpectedly and undesirably accurate. Rude. 

“Course you don’t,” Sam says, “but I’m right. If the dream is being gay Joanna Gaines or whatever, landing this deal with Pepper can make that happen. So take it or leave it but either way just know that if you decide to go make a sex mistake with Steve under _no_ circumstances do I want to hear about it.”

Bucky pulls another face. “…so you’re _sure_ the open relationship thing won’t work?”

Sam starts piling up the row of pillows in between them again. “Man go the fuck to sleep.” 

Bucky wants to whine a little more, but he figures he’s pressed his luck on Sam actually being pretty nice to him tonight about an issue he clearly isn’t super keen to discuss at length. 

He thrashes a little on his pillow, getting comfortable. 

Three days. Bucky can keep his hands and feelings to himself for three days. 

 

Both Bucky’s hands and his feelings seem to have other ideas. 

They’re all taking a bit of a slow morning, with plans to visit the town’s Christmas market later in the afternoon. 

Steve is engaged in a deep, quiet conversation with Pepper in one corner of the living room about the military’s culture of toxic masculinity and Bucky wants to die. Turns out that Sam’s good advice was all wasted because Bucky can’t answer for _why_ he’s turned into such a messy bitch this week but he _has_ and there’s nothing he can do about it. He wants Steve to talk to _him_ about systemic oppression of minorities and then make him coffee and then shove him up against a wall. These wants are not changing in the foreseeable. 

So Bucky does what soothes him at home—he throws himself into some aggressive crafting. He’d brought all the decorations the house really needed already made, but he figures adding a few new items before tomorrow’s big Christmas Eve celebrations can’t hurt. He’s glad he packed a bunch of his supplies. 

By the time lunch has come and gone (another slow cooker number because he’s not a _machine_ , he needs _some_ breaks) Bucky has assembled half a dozen pinecone and mistletoe kissing balls. They’re made with an assortment of things he purchased and materials he scrounged up around the property, and he’s pretty pleased with the result—he’d tested out some different dipped looks with some gold leaf, silver glitter, and fake snow trying to decide which is the prettiest. He kind of likes the mix of them all actually. 

Bucky is going to hang them up when he balks, realizing that by incorporating the mistletoe he didn’t just make something nicely seasonal that he can blog about, but rather that he’s created what amounts to six personal land mines. _Idiot_. He hovers over the table where they’re all drying in anguished indecision. Maybe if he just puts them in a corner he can avoid ever walking under…

“Hey muffin,” Sam drawls, temporarily abandoning whatever sports game he has playing on the television to meander into the dining room, “anything for tonight I can help…” he trails off, eyes fixing on the kissing balls. He looks up and gives Bucky a long, expressive stare, shakes his head, and walks out again. 

“Sam—” Bucky says to Sam’s judgmental, retreating back, almost whining. Sam shakes his head again without turning around. 

Bucky follows him meekly into the living room, but both are immediately distracted by the sight of Tony standing on a stack of books on top of a chair inspecting the sound system speakers hanging above the television at ceiling level. 

“You know, I could help you out with these,” Tony says peering at the wiring at the back of the speaker. “Wouldn’t take a lot, jack up your sound quality, I’d just need to take the back off of one of these babies and dig around a little to be sure…” 

Bucky and Sam exchange a quick, anxious glance. That _definitely_ isn’t covered in their airbnb agreement. 

“Oh, that’s not—”

“Actually we don’t—”

They both start at the same time, in remarkably similar tones that sound like two high-strung people trying very hard to be easy-going. 

Tony doesn’t seem to notice. “No really, it’s no biggie, I think I’ve even got—aha!” he pulls something out of his pocket, and waves it at them. It’s a mini screw driver, because that’s a very normal thing to carry around. 

“No!” They both exclaim in unison, and that finally draws Pepper’s attention away from her conversation with Steve over by the piano. She takes one look between Sam and Bucky’s alarmed expressions and Tony’s enthusiastic one from his perch and closes her eyes like she’s asking for patience. Then she opens them with a bright smile. 

“Hey! I think it’s just about Christmas market time, don’t you all? I’m ready for a little walk, earn our dinner.” She says, coming over to wave Tony down from the chair. He looks reluctantly at the speaker and the screw driver in his hand, looking like his fingers are itching with the effort of not taking the thing apart. But he allows Pepper to pull him down, thank god. 

“Yes, definitely—this is the perfect time to head over,” Sam says with palpable relief, Bucky nodding in emphatic agreement. 

Pepper beams at them knowingly. “In that case, let me just get my coat. Somebody tell Natasha we’re leaving?” 

Sam moves off to knock on Natasha’s door, and Steve joins Bucky in tugging on their coats in the front entry. Bucky can’t help but give one quick, wishful glance at the row of sparkling kissing balls in the dining room. Ah well. 

Soon the six of them are making their way down their little driveway out to the street which will take them into town. The roads have all been cleared now, so it’s easy walking, and the small downtown is only half a mile or so from the farmhouse—just the right distance so that they’re feeling warm and cheerful by the time the sound of caroling and view of Christmas lights marking the edge of the town square comes into view. 

The Christmas market is another one of the things Sam and Bucky had scoped out ahead of time as an activity to bring their houseguests to that would have the feeling of a tradition. From everything they could find out about it, it’s a beloved holiday event around town—almost as beloved as the Christmas Eve Benefit dance, which they’ll all be attending tomorrow—so it was easy to do some instagram research and whatnot to seem like they know what they’re doing. 

“Well I’ve been looking forward to mulled wine from Gregario’s all week,” Bucky says, spotting the stall. He really has actually been looking forward to trying it, so that part isn’t a lie. Just the part where it sounds like he does it every year. “Anybody else?” 

“Pepper, look! See the candle making place, it looks like they’re making the West World robots—gross! Let’s go look,” Tony says, not answering Bucky. 

Honestly he’s acting like an eight year old today but Bucky appreciates his enthusiasm at least. And the fact that his enthusiasm is currently pulling him in the opposite direction of where Bucky intends to be at the moment. 

“I’m good on wine for the moment, but let’s meet by the preserves stand later!” Pepper says over her shoulder to Bucky, allowing herself to be pulled away by Tony, with Natasha in their wake. 

“I’m getting chocolate,” Sam says shortly, walking off into the crowd without further explanation. Bucky rolls his eyes. 

“Guess that just leaves you and me?” says Steve, pulling Bucky’s attention back to where Steve has stepped up beside him. 

“Guess…guess it does,” Bucky replies, weakly. His voice is weak, his body is weak—everything about him is weak in Steve’s presence! Operation Pull it Together is experiencing serious set-backs!

Bucky wishes he could reach out and take Steve’s hand—the multi-colored Christmas lights are staining his gold hair with bright colors like stained glass, and the cut of his pea coat does unfair things to the line of his shoulders. It would be really nice to link their fingers, to stroll through the market looking at stalls of Christmas ornaments and toffee and baked goods and pottery—to do it every year like the rest of the happy couples and families walking around who actually belong to this postcard perfect afternoon. 

Bucky sighs, jamming his hands into his coat pockets and pointing him and Steve in the direction of the mulled wine. Imbibing is quickly becoming a matter less of aesthetic interest and more of necessity. 

Once their hands are full of steaming cups of mulled wine to warm their fingers, Steve and Bucky stroll down the rows of booths. Once in a while they’ll stop in front of one that looks interesting—a stall where Steve buys a soft red knitted scarf, and one where Bucky buys two cartons of apple cider from a lady who looks uncannily like Mrs. Claus. 

They halt near the end of the row in front of a stand selling snow globes, all winking and glittering under the lights. It’s funny seeing the assortment of cities and houses and scenes each bottled up in their own little world. 

Bucky picks up one, “Look, it looks just like the farmhouse, doesn’t it?” he turns it in his hand to show Steve the little house inside with the wreath on the door and fir trees surrounding it. 

“It really does!” Steve says delightedly, “you should buy it!” 

Bucky gives him a sideways smile, but sets the globe down. “Nah. I don’t think uh—Sam would like it much. Knick-knacks, stuff to dust, you know.” 

Really, Bucky’s not sure he wants to keep a reminder like that of this week—the whole thing feels like he’s already living in a little jar exactly like that. Just a tiny bubble version of a life, without anything really on the inside. When he goes back to his normal, Brooklyn existence he’d rather not be wishing too hard to be back here. 

Speaking of Brooklyn, Bucky spots another globe featuring the Brooklyn Bridge, and raises that for Steve’s inspection to distract him. 

“You said you grew up in the city right?” Bucky asks, remembering Steve’s comment about bussing tables in NYC. 

“Yeah! In Brooklyn actually, you were spot on,” Steve says, turning the globe over to watch the glittery white snow fall on the bridge. 

“Really?” Bucky asks, a bit surprised. “I—me too.” 

“No way!” Steve says, “should’ve been able to spot your accent, but maybe you’ve lost it a bit living up here. Know I have, being away. Do you miss it?” 

Bucky chuckles, “Um…I guess I’d just say it’ll always be home to me.” 

He feels another pang about lying, and even though going into this week he knew that was going to be the whole damn point, they’re starting to pile up a little bit more than he likes. But it’s true, Brooklyn _has_ always been home. He thinks it probably would be even if he really had moved away. 

Steve grins, “I get that. I think it’s the same for me—though it’s been, gosh a decade I guess since I’ve lived there. And it’s weird now, when I go, staying in a hotel…but still. Guess you never really grow out of being a Brooklyn kid do you?” 

“No, you really don’t,” Bucky says with a huff of laughter. “Can’t believe my parents left the city for fucking Michigan—can you even imagine choosing to live somewhere that’s not—” Bucky pulls himself up sharp, realizing what he is about to say and scrambling to course correct as seamlessly as he can, “not um, at least in easy driving distance to New York? Obviously I live here now but at least it’s not…not a whole thing to get back.” 

Bucky can tell that his cheeks are flaming from the near miss, and Steve is smiling back at him with something like faint amusement. 

“Well, I guess it’s all about what you trade it for. You gave up the city for something that seems…seems like a pretty worthwhile trade.” Steve says, looking away again, down at the Brooklyn snow globe in his hand. They flick over to the farmhouse globe where Bucky’s hand still rests on the table. “I think I’d make it in a heartbeat.” 

“Steve,” Bucky says, reaching out to touch Steve’s elbow. He doesn’t have any idea what he’s going to say—probably something ill-advised, “are you—do you—”

He’s either spared or prevented when Tony and Pepper spot them from the end of the row, calling them over to look at some weird metal yard sculptures seemingly made from gears. Tony buys two. 

That ends up being the last moment he’s left alone with Steve for the rest of the evening. 

Bucky doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or relieved.


	8. The Fire is So Delightful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam's resolve may be weakening too, because he literally can't stop himself from being a good bro.

When Steve sneaks out of his room again that night, after another fruitless attempt at an early sleep like everyone else, it’s not because he hopes Bucky will also be up, maybe even waiting for him. It’s definitely not. 

But that doesn’t stop his heart from rising into his throat when he lets himself into the hallway and sees that once again, there’s a low flicker of flame coming from the living room. 

Twice now, last night and then again today, Steve felt like Bucky was just on the brink of saying something important. Steve’s imagination has failed him over and over trying to guess what it could possibly be that would be good for him or make any of this easier…but just the fact that Bucky seems to want to tell him, yet keeps stopping himself, makes Steve keen to know what it is the other man is holding back. 

And that’s absolutely what makes his heart then leave his throat to come crashing with a heavy thud at the pit of his stomach when he sees that it’s not Bucky sitting up by the fire tonight, but Sam. 

Steve’s guilty conscience sets of a series of warning flares all the way across his brain— _he knows you like his husband, he’s about to tell you to back off, maybe he’ll tell you to get out of his house! he’s definitely on to you, you’re the worst person in the world oh no oh no oh no…_

Sam turns and sees Steve frozen at the edge of the room, and immediately smiles widely, beckoning him over. 

It takes a minute for Steve’s frazzled brain to recognize the pleasant expression and process that it doesn’t really seem like a trap, or like Sam is about to threaten him with violence for following his husband around like a lovesick puppy the past couple days. 

“Come on over, man,” Sam says, tipping his glass at Steve, “pour a drink. I’m literally drinking straight rye because I don't have Bucky’s patience, but you do you if you wanna jazz it up.” 

“Um…thanks,” Steve manages, voice still a little strained. Why is Sam being nice to him? But then…it’s not like Sam’s really been anything _but_ nice. Maybe he really is just laid-back. “Straight up sounds good.” 

Steve sloshes a couple fingers of something—cognac, maybe, he didn’t actually pay attention to which cut-glass decanter he’d poured from—into a glass, sitting down a safe but not awkward distance from Sam. Steve regards him cautiously out of the corner of his eye, it looks like Sam was working on a crosssword before Steve walked in, but now he tosses it aside on the couch. 

“So how’s it going man? Having a good time?” Sam asks. Steve balks a little, but there _still_ doesn’t seem to be anything passive-aggressive or disingenuous lurking under Sam’s tone. Just affable interest. 

“Oh ah—yeah. I really am, actually. Your house is lovely.” Steve says at last. 

Sam chuckles softly, one corner of his mouth curving up. “Yeah it’s a nice place. And you know, all this,” he waves a hand around the room at the winking Christmas lights and evergreen, “Bucky goes all out.” 

“Yeah he—” Steve clears his throat, then takes a large burning sip of cognac, “he’s great. At this stuff.” 

“Hmm,” Sam says, regarding him. Steve blushes. “Still can’t sleep though?” Sam asks. 

The question surprises Steve. “Oh it’s not…not anything wrong, just—”

“Just adjusting to being back still? Bet that bed in there’s too damn soft is the problem huh?” 

That startles Steve enough out of his embarrassment to look at Sam directly for the first time. “Actually—yeah. How’d you know?” 

Sam laughs. “Three tours, Air Force—though it’s been a minute. I remember what that was like—spend all that time thinking how you can’t wait to get back to a real mattress and a nice pillow, then once you’re there your damn body won’t let you enjoy it.”

Steve responds with his own, startled laugh. “Exactly. I—I can’t remember now, from last time I was deployed, how long it took to get past that. But also last time, I came back with my whole unit, not just alone feeling bad about everybody still deployed.” He shrugs, taking another drink. “So who knows? Guess I’ll keep better track this time.” 

“Yeah well,” Sam says, peering down into his tumbler, “not the only thing to get used to Stateside, back here on your own and now on a triumphant press tour. That’s gotta be a little weird.” 

Steve tries to read Sam’s expression. Maybe Bucky told him—said something about what Steve had said last night, about how he was having a hard time with it? Steve couldn’t exactly be mad about that, it’s not like he would’ve asked Bucky to keep it a secret from his husband or anything. But it also doesn’t seem like Sam is implying anything in particular. So maybe he’s just guessing from his own experience. 

“It is. Weird, I mean.” Steve confirms. 

“You planning on staying in? Career guy?” 

Steve shrugs. Two months ago he would have answered yes to that pretty confidently. Now he’s not sure. “I don’t know. Thought I would but…with the medal and all I’ve…rethought some. Not sure if that’s what I want anymore, or if what I want is something more like—” he cuts himself off, not wanting to expose himself too badly. But then he shrugs, and ploughs ahead anyway—it seems like Sam understands more than Steve gave him credit for, just not the things Steve was afraid of. “Something more like what you’ve got now, I guess,” he finishes, looking away into the fire. 

Sam snorts softly. “Yeah I…I hear you. I think I know what you mean.” 

Steve hopes Sam doesn’t know _exactly_ what he means, but apparently even if he does he’s not going to make a scene about it. Steve supposes that’s what it _should_ look like, for somebody who is confident in their relationship and their partner not to get too worked up over little things like some stranger having a crush on them. Clearly Sam’s not too perturbed by him. 

Which makes Steve feel marginally less guilty, but significantly more pathetic. 

The fact that Sam is clearly a decent guy, perceptive and friendly—a _vet_ —only increases the feeling. Steve had come out here hoping for an assignation, but he’d gotten a well-deserved reality check. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, he’ll be leaving here Christmas afternoon after the presents are opened and the champagne drunk. And Sam will be able to return to his life—the life Steve’s so jealous of—and that’ll be that. 

Unfortunately, _because_ Sam is annoyingly nice and decent, Steve can’t even begrudge him that. 

“For what it’s worth,” Sam says after a few moments of Steve getting lost in his own thoughts there, “I am glad I got out. I think I would’ve been glad even if things…didn’t turn out quite like this. It was worth taking the leap, once I hit that point where the only reason I was still in was just the convenience of certainty. You know what life looks like, when you’ve been in a while—you know what it will look like if you stay. But it’s not really a good enough reason on its own, the certainty, unless you really do like it for what it is.” 

Sam pauses, and Steve finds the look on his face perplexing. It’s almost…apologetic, somehow. 

“You should…let yourself want things.” Sam says, “If that’s what’s happening anyway.” 

Steve considers that for a moment. It’s surprisingly good advice, and not at all from a source he would’ve expected. He _has_ been thinking—wondering what he might do if he decided that he didn’t want to stay in for the thirty or so years he’d anticipated. What shape his life might take if he decides not to re-up at the end of this contract, and do something completely new. 

He opens his mouth to reply—to ask Sam, maybe, what he thinks Steve should do, when a sound at the far end of the hallway makes them both freeze. 

It’s Tony, coming out of his and Pepper’s room, humming indistinctly to himself. 

Steve and Sam make eye contact, and it feels like they’re both thinking the same thing about spending any more time with Tony today. 

“Hide?” Steve whispers. 

“Hide!” Sam agrees, nodding and slipping off the couch. He flaps his hand at Steve to follow him and they scurry as fast as they can on silent sock-feet, both with drink still in hand. 

Sam opens a door and they tumble into it, Sam yanking it shut behind them noiselessly. 

Steve looks around. The appear to be in a supply closet, surrounded by stacks of board games and spare towels. Sam groans quietly. 

“Um…why?” Steve whispers, trying not to giggle helplessly. 

“I—thought this was a—different door,” Sam grits out, which just makes Steve laugh harder. 

“It’s your own house! Now we’re trapped.” 

“I was under _pressure_ ,” Sam hisses. Steve’s eyes are adjusting to the light, enough that he can see as Sam throws back a gulp of whiskey. “Anyway aren’t _you_ the tactical genius between the two of us??” Sam demands. “That’s what they called you on the Today Show isn’t it?” 

They can hear Tony scuffling around in the living room, evidently picking things up and setting them back down again at random. Steve hopes he didn’t come out to rewire Sam and Bucky’s sound system—they hadn’t seemed very happy about that prospect earlier today, and it feels like something Tony might do. 

Steve takes the last gulp of his cognac. “Okay, he’s moving toward the kitchen. The minute we hear the door swing let’s make a break for it, right?” 

Sam nods and finishes his drink, reaching to take Steve’s glass. He sets them both on a shelf next to a pile of neatly labeled Tupperware. 

“We’ll get these in the morning,” he explains, nodding at Steve, “ready when you are.” 

“He’s close now—probably just—okay, go go go!” Steve whispers, and Sam slips out of the closet with Steve close on his heels. 

Sam breaks for the other hallway to his and Bucky’s master bedroom, spinning to shoot Steve a quick, military precise salute and rakish grin. Steve can’t help but to grin back, before turning to hurry on tiptoes to the safety of his own bedroom.


	9. Then Comes That Big Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys we're rolling into the juicy stuff now! (Liz Lemon voice things are _happening_!)
> 
> I myself am posting early today because I'll be channeling Bucky this afternoon as I get ready to host Thanksgiving at my house...lots of methodical chopping to be done before anyone arrives who might try to "help" when actually that's my favorite part. 
> 
> I'm setting up tomorrow's chapter too so it'll be posted as per usual, a treat for myself to hide from family for a minute at some point in the afternoon (maybe that's what you'll be doing as well?) haha. Happy Thanksgiving to those of you celebrating it!
> 
> By the way, if you're wondering what Bucky's playlist might sound like here's a link to [ mine on spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/ctwls3bilnny431vd7z1trz55/playlist/3Hb3OQpPm0EwR4VV1wkQkX?si=tgQySHRnRnKwP_eIYF9Xfg) if you're looking for some (mostly) vintage Christmas cheer :)

Christmas Eve morning dawns another clear, bright white day around the little farmhouse. 

For once in his life, Bucky bounds out of bed feeling awake the minute his feet hit the floor instead of a solid hour and a half and two cups of coffee later, as is his normal M.O. 

Because regardless of anything else this week has brought, _this_ is his moment to shine—the one he’s been looking forward to since he and Sam decided to do this thing. And he intends to spend all day enjoying it. 

Nobody can argue with him either when he informs them he’ll be tapping out of activities for the day until dinner. Even Sam is magnanimous in saying he’ll keep everybody entertained while Bucky works. 

The past couple of days it’s been fun and nice delegating a bit to Steve in setting up the table and whatnot so Bucky could focus on cooking, but today he plans to do everything himself because he wants it to be absolutely perfect. 

He also insists on commandeering the television to turn on the 24-hour marathon of A Christmas Story back to back—out of all the other things that are fun but not actually a yearly tradition as they might pretend, that’s the one real tradition of his he intends to keep. 

Bucky spends the first half of the day on decorating and set-up, kicking everything in the little dining room up another notch and a half. He even hangs the kissing balls, deciding fuck it—they look pretty and sparkly and they’ll be cute in photos. Nobody _has_ to kiss under them if they don’t want to. Mistletoe isn’t like a binding contract or something. 

For the table, he brings out his _piece de resistance_ —a set of antique Christmas china, creamy pale plates edged with lacy green and red holly sprigs surrounded by gold leaf. It’s beautiful and delicate. Bucky saw it in a second hand shop almost two years ago, and even though it was the most impractical thing he’s ever done, he couldn’t stop himself from buying the whole set—twelve place settings—just on the hope that one day he’d have a good reason to use it. Maybe with his own family someday, he’d thought. He hadn’t really pictured his good reason being something like this, but he figures why not? People will enjoy it now one way or another. 

Linen napkins get rolled into his handmade napkin rings (silver and gold wire threaded with evergreen, a tutorial he’d featured earlier this month on Thatchery&Sprig). He switches out the evergreen and birch centerpieces for something a little more over-the-top Christmas-y and colorful with a bunch of ornament balls. 

Much as he likes Steve and having Steve around, Bucky gently sends him away today when he asks if he can do anything. Sam’s right—this is a chance Bucky’s been waiting for for a long time, and he means to do right by himself and make the most of it. 

Once everything is magazine-spread-perfect in the dining room, he retreats to the kitchen. 

He turns his Vintage Christmas playlist on (because he’s of the strong opinion that there isn’t any worthwhile Christmas music that has been recorded since 1965) and hums along to Judy Garland and the Andrews Sisters and Frank and Bing while he sets to working at a leisurely pace. 

It’s nice, more like how he does things at home, cooking like this. While he does still have a deadline he supposes, it doesn’t feel so much like it when he’s allotted the whole day to be ready in time. No rushing through his favorite things like the process of methodically chopping vegetables to be roasted or reducing wine for gravy a little bit at a time. 

All the smells and sounds wrap around him, and he lets himself sink into the familiar sensations of making food—with the added niceness of knowing he’s not the only one who’ll be eating it. That and the fact that he’s prepping it all in a kitchen with more than two feet of workspace, an unheard of luxury compared to his apartment. 

Later on tonight they’ll get dressed up and go to the Charity Ball in the old town hall, and tomorrow will be opening presents and Christmas brunch, all of which will be fun. But this meal is really Bucky’s last hurrah—the one he wants to make just right. 

So at six o’clock sharp he’s smiling broadly to himself as he fills the farmhouse table with pretty, scrumptious things with a sense of utter satisfaction. 

(The menu, chosen for equal parts taste, aesthetics, and Christmas tradition factor is: personal sized beef wellingtons with cranberry and caramelized onion, smashed parmesan potatoes, roasted rainbow carrots and asparagus, white wine and mushroom gravy, pomegranate and citrus fruit salad which looks like jewels, and his homemade rosemary and thyme rolls.)

Bucky calls Natasha in first to photograph everything without the pressure of everyone hovering. He _really_ wants this part to come out, and he’s grateful to Natasha for taking her time—it seems like she means to capture it all at its best too. 

“Okay,” she says at last, quickly flicking through the photos on her camera before looking up at Bucky with a small but reassuring smile, “can’t look more perfect than that. Want me to call everyone in?” 

Bucky sighs with relief, and nods. Natasha sets her camera beside her place at the table and disappears into the living room. 

Bucky makes as if to sit in his seat, but immediately jumps up again, feeling a little fluttery. 

Steve is the first one into the room though (so quick that Bucky wonders if he’s just been hovering around waiting to be allowed in, which Bucky finds painfully endearing with a swell of affection). Steve’s eyes go wide at once, and he gives a very gratifying coo of admiration. 

Tony and Pepper are behind him, and their praise is also effusive—Pepper’s even more satisfying since she comments on the details and Bucky knows that she actually has the sharp eye and taste to appreciate all of it, so it means a lot. 

Sam comes in and edges around to the corner of the room by the sideboard, shooting Bucky a thumbs up and letting the other three take their seats first so that Bucky can bask in his moment. 

Bucky doesn’t notice that Sam’s unintentionally positioned himself under two of Bucky’s kissing balls which he’d strategically placed where he wouldn’t walk under them by accident until Natasha enters the room. Unfortunately for Sam, Tony does—

“Hey hey hey!” Tony says, flapping his hand at Sam, “mistletoe! You’re under the mistletoe, kiss up Nat!” 

Sam looks up at the glittering ball above him like it’s personally betrayed his entire family. Natasha smirks, eyes on Sam. 

Tony reaches a hand for her camera though, and she says without even looking at him, “Do it and lose a hand, Stark.” 

Tony yanks his hand back, pouting. Bucky kind of agrees, he wishes he could capture the look on Sam’s face right now as Natasha slinks forward, putting a hand on his shoulder to place a soft kiss on his lips. It’s quick, so it should look friendly but…just doesn’t. Something about the knowing smirk on Natasha’s face maybe. Bucky coughs to cover a laugh. 

“Merry Christmas, Wilson,” Natasha says, turning away to saunter to the table. 

Sam stays frozen in place for a minute before clearing his throat. “Merry uh—Christmas.” 

Bucky raises his eyebrows at Sam, who flips him off very fast down at his side so that nobody else sees. 

Dinner is everything Bucky wanted it to be—no note out of place. And he’s surprised to find himself feeling sentimental as he looks at the faces around his table, all laughing at some joke of Tony’s. He thought maybe he’d feel more like this was a performance. But it doesn’t. These people aren’t family, some of them barely even count as friends, but he still feels…warm. 

Bucky rides the high through dinner, through gingerbread and cinnamon cheesecake, through chatting over a final glass of wine. And the way everyone else lingers makes him feel hopeful that they’re enjoying themselves as much as he is, genuinely, not just because they need to be here for their own career moves. 

Eventually they all decide that they’d better get ready to go into town, and Bucky waves everybody off about the dishes—they can all wait until after the fun. 

“Hell, maybe Santa will send some elves to do it,” he teases, tossing his napkin onto the table. 

The dance in town is apparently a well-attended Christmas Eve tradition for folks around this part of Connecticut. Bucky and Sam had floated the idea to Pepper and Tony of attending, and Pepper had agreed enthusiastically after noting that there are some pretty big heavy-hitters in the world of charitable giving and even politics who will be there. Great for networking, she’d commented. Bucky’s just excited about having a reason to wear a tuxedo for approximately the third time in his life. 

“So…Natasha,” Bucky says dryly as Sam closes the door of their bedroom. 

“Dude—don’t start,” Sam says in a pained voice, closing his eyes. “You aren’t the one who had to take a full on cold shower in 28 degree weather the other day thanks to our sledding escapades, let me bear this cross in silence please.” 

Bucky laughs at him, but then again he’s got no leg to stand on here. 

Sam dresses quickly, throwing on his tux and escaping the room as fast as he can manage after brushing his teeth and tying his shoes at the same time. 

Bucky, despite his protests at Sam’s accusation the other day, _does_ in fact like to spend at least a _little_ bit of time on his hair when he’s trying to look nice, so he spends a bit longer fussing. 

Outside the bedroom window, Bucky notes that the clear blue of the daytime sky from before has given way to a soft grey blanket promising more snow. No stars are visible behind the clouds, but the moon is bright enough to illuminate the glistening white ground, making the evening look lighter now than it normally would at this time. 

Bucky smiles. Fresh snow for Christmas Eve seems like the kind of thing he’d invent for Thatchery&Sprig. The universe seems to be sending him everything he could have asked for to make the illusion complete. 

When he steps out of the room a little while later, the house is hushed. He figures Tony must not have emerged yet to fill up the silence with his presence. 

Coming down the hallway, he notices that the soft sound of Christmas music filtering from the living room isn’t from his playlist anymore. 

Bucky pauses at the edge of the living room as he realizes in fact that the gentle sound of a piano isn’t from the speakers at all—but from the baby grand in the corner under the windows, where Steve’s hands are moving softly over the keys. 

Bucky has to stop to catch his breath for a moment. 

Steve is once again in his dress uniform—sharp black coat buttoned crisply at his throat, long legs with the stripe down the side tucked up under him, one foot on the pedals of the piano. His hair is sleek and tidy, haloed by the warm light of the Christmas tree beside him. In the window behind him, Bucky can see snowflakes just beginning to fall. 

Steve’s lips begin to move slightly, and Bucky recognizes that he’s started singing along to the melody forming under his fingertips. His voice picks up strength a little, and Bucky can hear his light, pleasant baritone. 

“ _Please have snow and mistletoe, and presents round the tree_ …” Steve sings, Bucky now practically holding his breath, intent on not missing a second of it. 

It suddenly occurs to him that all night he’s been thinking how amazing it is to have something that measures up to the most unattainable fantasies he’s written into his fictional life. 

But this moment? The picture Steve makes at the piano?

It’s something better and more lovely than anything he could have written. It’s both too real and too unbelievably perfect for him to have imagined or planned for. 

Steve looks up across the room, his fingers faltering momentarily over the keys as he catches Bucky’s eye. But he keeps playing—and he holds Bucky’s gaze with a look Bucky doesn’t want to believe is for him when he sings the final lines, 

“ _Yes I’ll be home for Christmas—if only in my dreams_.” His voice lingers over the final words, drawing each one out before his hands come to a stop, and the final notes from the piano melt into quiet. 

Bucky takes a deep, shaky breath. 

He’s been so good today, so laser-focused on taking Sam’s advice to heart and throwing his all into his work—into cementing this dream he’s been working toward for nearly three years. It was steadying to apply himself to the tangible things he could make and do, utterly rooted in reality. 

But the thing is—Steve is real. He may look like a fantasy somebody invented to torture Bucky this week, but he’s a flesh-and-blood person. And he’s looking back at Bucky like _Bucky_ is the dream guy. 

Bucky doesn’t make a move to step any closer. All of his words and common sense have abandoned him. So he just stands with his heart hammering foolishly against his ribs at the edge of the room. 

Steve doesn’t look away. But after a moment he squares his shoulders and stands, his full height and broad chest emphasized under the cut of his uniform, light glinting off the medals and ribbons on his coat. 

Bucky swallows—half of him willing Steve to cross the room to him, half thinking he should probably go hide in his room and never come out again because he’s definitely about to do something stupid…

But he’s saved, yet again, by Tony. Stark bangs open his door at the end of the other hallway, and Steve’s eyes finally break away from Bucky’s, freeing him from whatever enchantment he’d placed on him. Bucky heaves a sigh like he’s just finished a sprint, running a hand through his hair nervously and completely forgetting how long he’d just spent making it perfect. 

_Oh hell_ , he thinks helplessly. 

Pepper follows Tony into the hall, sleek and gorgeous in a long emerald gown, a white coat draped over her arm and hair pinned up off of her graceful neck. 

“Ready?” Pepper asks with a smile. 

Bucky forces his own mouth to reply with a smile and what he hopes is a normal tone of voice. 

“Ready! You look beautiful, Pepper.” 

“Hmph!” Tony scoffs, throwing his coat over his shoulders, “what am I, chopped liver?” 

Bucky laughs, “You look beautiful too, Tony.” He does in fact look very presentable, but then again nobody has ever accused Tony Stark of being disinterested in nice clothes. 

“And Steve,” Pepper says, stepping forward to kiss Steve on the cheek, “you might be the fairest of them all, you clean up great.” 

“Thank you ma’am,” Steve says, and Bucky’s not sure if he’s imagining that Steve’s voice is just a little faint. 

Pepper laughs, an infectious tinkling sound like silver bells, “Oh Steve,” she smacks his arm, “putting the uniform back on made you revert—I thought we got past the ma’am-ing.” 

Steve ducks his head, blush rising on his cheeks. “Sorry,” he says. 

“Well, that’s the last one you get for today. I’ll make the allowance because you do look very gallant.” 

Steve proves her point by taking her coat to hold while she slips into it. 

Sam and Natasha join them shortly—Sam from wherever he’s been hiding from Bucky’s teasing (if only he knew how quickly Bucky had gotten his karmic come-uppance for that), and Natasha from her guest bedroom. 

Natasha, while not quite as strikingly attired as Pepper, still looks remarkably good in a simple, velvety black dress, her hair swept to the side. Sam makes a very deliberate effort not to look at her. 

“No camera?” Bucky asks, noticing that her hands are unusually empty but for a slim clutch purse.

Natasha shrugs, “There’ll be official press for this thing—won’t make for very interesting photos with the rest of the spread anyway.”

“You’re right—nobody wants to see any more boring photos of me schmoozing donors,” Pepper says amiably, “You’ve been working all week, you can just have some fun with us for this one.”

“Alright alright,” Tony says, clapping his hands together, “let us all away to the Christmas ball! Hey Pep, wanna make a bet about who ends up dancing on a buffet table by the end of the night?” 

“Tony I swear, please try to keep it just a little bit together…”

Tony brings a hand to his chest, outraged, “You’re just _assuming_ it would be me? I’m hurt!” 

Pepper gives him a _look_ , and Tony huffs but doesn’t respond as he turns away for the door. 

“Snowing again comrades, let’s make some tracks!” he calls over his shoulder. 

They all pile into Sam’s car, the only one big enough to hold all of them so they don’t need two vehicles, and Bucky tries very hard not to get caught staring at Steve. 

But he can’t help his eyes darting to the back seat for a glimpse of golden hair every few moments—and he also can’t say he’s entirely surprised when he finds Steve’s blue eyes already on him more often than they aren’t.


	10. In a One Horse Open Sleigh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, I've strung you along long enough--time for some pining payout. 
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving! Today when we all go around the table and say what we're thankful for...I will NOT be telling my family about my fanfiction, but in my HEART just know that what I'm really thankful for and thinking of is all of you ;)

There isn’t really time for Steve to think about what he’s doing or done or thinking once they arrive at the town hall. The place is decked out in red and gold Christmas decorations and already packed with guests. 

Being that he’s one of the three most recognizable people in the room, walking in with the other two at the top of the list to boot, Steve promptly finds himself at the center of a swirling mass of interested people in formalwear. 

He doesn’t even get a chance to see where Bucky, Sam, and Natasha sidle off to, but he’s jealous of their relative anonymity. He can also still feel the magnetic pull that seemed to roar to life tonight over the piano between he and Bucky, tugging at him even though he can’t see where the other man went. Steve doesn’t have time to analyze it, other than noting in one corner of his mind that whatever it was that happened has left him zingy and unsettled—like the feeling of knowing he’s headed into a firefight, but not sure when it’s coming. 

Steve’s introduced around to a merry-go-round of faces whose names absolutely leave his mind the moment he hears them, and at some point finds that Tony and Pepper have been swept up in their own mingling and conversations. So he’s utterly on his own fending off polite and sometimes less polite inquiries. 

He gets asked no less than three times if he’s considered running for office, and several more about his willingness to make appearances at various charity events. He’s as noncommittal as he can be, but he’s a bit outclassed here in persuasive conversation skills. 

At last, a woman in a red jacket with a toothpaste-ad smile—a local news anchor maybe—asks him to dance, and Steve accepts. He thinks at least he doesn’t have to talk anymore that way. 

But after a few turns on the floor with a couple of eager partners, severely testing the limits of his just passable dancing skills, he’s starting to reconsider. The lady in red snatches him up for another as a new song starts, and Steve starts to consider exit routes. 

When the number ends, before she can say anything, Steve smiles and says, “I think I’d better get a glass of water—it’s warm in here in this coat,” and disengages his arms from under her red-nailed fingers. 

“Of course,” she purrs, “but I’m going to find you again for a waltz—you’re a lovely dancer, Captain.” 

It’s certainly a lie—he’s an okay dancer. But Steve has no doubt the part about tracking him down again is probably true. 

“Ma’am,” Steve says, inclining his head before turning on his heel and hurrying off the dance floor. 

For lack of a better plan he does head toward the bar, and is flooded with relief to see Bucky, Sam, and Natasha nearby—Steve feels a twinge of jealousy for the ease of their evening, they’re all drinking champagne and seem to be laughing at something Sam’s saying, and nobody is accosting them even a little. 

Steve hurries over to them, reaching out to take Natasha’s elbow with a pleading expression. 

“Natasha—please come dance with me, I’ve got a—an admirer I can’t shake and if she sees me hiding she’s _gonna_ come drag me out again—but you’re pretty and scary, please help me…”

Natasha raises an amused eyebrow at “pretty and scary” but shakes her head. 

“I don’t dance,” she says with an expressionless tone. “Sorry.” 

Steve looks around helplessly and Sam shrugs his shoulders, “Me either.” 

Sam pauses, looking thoughtful. Then he shrugs again, a corner of his mouth curling. “Go on,” he says, shooting a look past Steve that’s too quick for him to decipher. 

Then, so synchronized that Steve would almost think they’d planned it if only—if only that weren’t crazy—Sam and Natasha slip away in the direction of the bar. Leaving him looking at Bucky. 

“I—” Bucky starts. 

“Dance?” Steve chokes out at the same time. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, looking as absolutely surprised to be saying it as Steve is to hear it. 

But he holds out his hand to Bucky, and Bucky places his own warm palm into his. 

They step onto the dance floor as the final bars of the current song wrap up, and of course— _of course_ —it’s a slow one that starts up to replace it. 

That’s fine, Steve thinks. It’s easier for—for the dancing. Nobody has to lead a slow dance really. 

Bucky steps toward him, pulling Steve’s hand around his waist, and then draping his over Steve’s shoulder so that they’re chest to chest as they start to turn. 

For a moment, everything around them fades entirely. Steve feels the same rush of something that he’d experienced when he’d looked up across the piano and found Bucky’s eyes fixed on him. He lets his cheek press against Bucky’s temple, feeling Bucky’s hair soft against his face. Steve sighs, and a small shiver passes through Bucky like electricity. 

Then Bucky pulls back and Steve’s brain snaps at him like a thunderclap as he remembers—this isn’t something he can _do_.

“Bucky, I’m sorry—” Steve scrambles to say in a hushed voice, stepping back, not sure exactly what he can apologize for without naming many things that are probably best left unnamed but…

Bucky cuts him off, squeezing his hand tight, and his gaze is intent and determined. 

“Don’t.” He says, and Steve stops talking, mouth still just slightly open in confusion. “Look I need to—I have to tell you something but—” Bucky glances around the crowded dance floor, and he gives an annoyed huff, “shit, not here. Come with me.” 

Steve wouldn’t protest even if he could, but he’s also too startled by Bucky towing him off the floor to the edge of the room to even consider it. 

In fact, all he can really think about is the fact that Bucky hasn’t dropped his hand and the point of connection is like a spark setting the rest of him on fire. 

Bucky lets go just long enough for them to retrieve their coats at the coat-check, but reaches for it again as soon as his jacket is buttoned up. Steve’s eyes don’t leave Bucky even for a moment as he pulls Steve out the door, so Steve has no idea where they’re going or if anybody is observing. 

Bucky links his arm into Steve’s once they’re outside, breath puffing out white in front of them. It hasn’t started snowing in earnest yet, but there are still gentle, lacy flakes drifting down here and there. 

They walk a little ways from the entrance to the hall, up a line of cars and the valet parking stall, down the street alongside a low rail fence marking what looks like a park. 

Still Bucky doesn’t say anything. But Steve, despite his utter confusion, is content for a few more moments to enjoy the warmth of Bucky’s arm in his, and their shoulders pressed tight together as they walk. 

Finally, Bucky stops walking, turning to Steve. His brow is furrowed in a look Steve’s come to recognize, trying to decide what he’s going to say. 

Then the expression melts and he laughs, wryly. “Jesus I don’t know where to start,” he says, rubbing his hands on his arms, “and it’s fucking _cold_ —” he looks around them, and then smiles, eyes landing on something across the street. “Aha! Come’ere,” he says, and Steve follows obediently. 

The thing he’d spotted is one of the old-fashioned, horse-drawn sleighs that quaint small towns bring out for tourists in the winter time. The driver is probably banking on people leaving the party wanting to enjoy a little picturesque jaunt around town before bed tonight. At the moment though, the driver isn’t in his seat, and the horse stands with a back hoof crooked idly, looking bored. 

“Hop up,” Bucky says, pointing. 

“Oh—but—the driver—”

Bucky shrugs, “If we’re still sitting here when he comes back we’ll tell him we want a ride and he’ll be fine. Look, blankets! Go on.” 

Steve hops up and Bucky follows, immediately throwing the heavy fur blanket draped on the seat over them—and Steve has to admit it is nice and warm. 

Steve turns to Bucky, and he finds Bucky looking away now, shyly. Bucky chews his bottom lip. 

“Bucky? You said—just tell me,” Steve manages at last. Just tell me so we can get this over with, he thinks. It can’t be any harder than it feels right now. 

“Yeah I know I—” Bucky says, hesitantly, still looking down at his hands in his lap. “The thing is I suddenly realize that what I want to say might make you…think I’m a real jerk. But I am. And I’m a jerk for not—the thing is—Sam and I, we’re not—it’s not exactly what it seems—”

“Then what is it?” Steve breathes, hardly believing he’s able to form any words at all. 

Bucky looks up at him now, steely blue eyes dark in the moonlight and lacy flakes of snow caught in his hair. “It’s a uh—business arrangement. Our marriage. Or our um—not really being married exactly. We’re friends, I mean but being married, it isn’t—”

Steve doesn’t even wait for the rest.

“Oh thank god,” he rasps, and his hands fly to cup Bucky’s face as he slams their lips together. 

As far as kisses go, it’s not Steve’s best work. It’s a little too eager and it takes them a moment to find their rhythm—but damn if it isn’t perfect anyway. Their lips are cold from the snowy night—but warm up quickly with the contact. And then Bucky’s mouth is opening under his and it’s a fiery point of bright heat. 

Steve isn’t totally aware of what he’s doing, wrapped up in the bliss of this thing he _never_ thought he’d actually get to do, but his hands have a mind of their own it seems. He tugs at Bucky’s coat pulling him closer, and then Bucky is straddling his lap, cold fingers in his hair, chests pressed together as they continue kissing. 

Bucky’s breath is hot like burning on Steve’s skin as his lips leave a trail down Steve’s throat, roaming up to graze his teeth along Steve’s jaw and tug at his earlobe. Then his mouth is on Steve’s again, and Steve gives a helpless little moan at the feeling of Bucky’s tongue against his. 

“Steve—” Bucky says, pulling back just a little. “You gotta know—truth is—I’m a mess—” He sounds breathless, and he can’t quite keep his mouth off Steve’s long enough to get a full sentence out, so the words are punctuated with feverish kisses, “sometimes I—microwave day old coffee—instead of making it new—and I do laundry like—once a month—I haven’t dated anybody—in a long time—and I’m clingy—in my sleep—my blog—god I’m a fake—”

If Bucky’s trying to dissuade Steve, all of it has the opposite effect. He hasn’t quite processed Bucky not _actually_ being married to Sam and whatever else that means, but what he does know is all of those things just make Bucky more _real_. They make him a person Steve can be making out with in the back of a sleigh instead of the person he fantasized about over the internet. So just for that, they’re all good, precious things. 

Steve just grins against Bucky’s mouth and slides his hands down his back, landing on his hips to tug him in tight against Steve’s. 

Bucky makes a soft noise at the back of his throat and drops his forehead to Steve’s shoulder. “Oh, fuck me…”

Steve understands from the inflection that it’s a surprised expression not an actual invitation, but he can’t help responding anyway with an upward tilt of his hips, “God, yes please.” 

Bucky lets out a high, breathy laugh. “Okay definitely but let’s put a pin in it for another— _fuck_.”

Steve feels Bucky’s body tense under his hands as he looks over Steve’s shoulder. “What is—”

But that’s when the world, which had all entirely rushed away the second Bucky had said “I’m not really married” comes slamming back to him, and he notices several things he probably should have sooner. 

One is that the sleigh they’re sitting in is decidedly no longer stationary, but moving along the road at a decent clip. 

Second is that the snow behind them is now being stained red and blue with flashing lights. 

The police car behind them gives a little _boop boop_ of its siren, and Buck scrambles out of Steve’s lap to sit beside him on the bench. 

They look at each other and then at the traitorous horse, clopping away down an utterly unfamiliar deserted stretch of street. 

“I think we just stole this sleigh,” Bucky says, bewildered. 

Steve can’t help but start to laugh.


	11. Every Couple Tries to Stop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some sweet, sweet resolution. 
> 
> Come on back tomorrow for one final update epilogue :)

Being with a well-known war hero, Bucky thinks, is already having its perks. 

The first of which being that the policeman who apprehended them on their accidental stolen sleigh chase didn’t arrest them outright, and also didn’t throw them in the drunk tank with the rest of the rabble. No, lucky for Bucky, Steve’s uniform and genuinely sheepish, fumbling apologies got them a seat on a set of hard plastic chairs at the desk of a bemused sergeant in the police station instead. 

They are, however, being fined. Which is better than being arrested and charged—except in that it sort of isn’t. Because neither had had their wallets or anything with them and so here they are…waiting for Tony Stark to come bail them out. 

It’s not like he was their first choice—Bucky tried Sam three times to no avail. So here they are. 

Tony, for all that he’s spent the better part of the past few days acting like a kid hopped up on sugar, does a surprisingly good “disappointed dad” look when he rolls in. He lets his tinted glasses slide down his nose to peer at them over the top after paying the fine at the front desk, arms crossed over his chest. 

“I—” Bucky begins. 

“We just—” Steve says at the same time. 

Tony holds up a hand. “You know what, how about you save it ’til we get home.”

Steve and Bucky exchange a nervous glance, but ultimately get up to follow Tony to his car in meek, obedient silence. He did just pay for their crime spree after all. 

The car ride is very silent, though Bucky thinks Tony might be enjoying the part he gets to play in this—he makes them both sit in the back seat so he can shake his head at them in the rearview mirror every so often. Bucky’s glad it’s a small town and a short drive back to the farmhouse by the time he and Steve tumble out of the car with Tony on their heels. 

Bucky isn’t really sure what all Tony comprehends at this point. Bucky had accepted, when he made up his mind to tell Steve the truth—what amount of it he managed to get out before he got distracting with the kissing—that he may need to be prepared for the consequences of _everyone_ finding out the truth. 

He feels a _little_ bad now, for Sam if not himself—though honestly Sam seemed like he was pushing Bucky off the cliff as much as Bucky was choosing to jump at the dance. 

Bucky risks a glance sideways at Steve, and finds Steve looking back, the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile that sends a shiver down Bucky’s spine. You know what? Worth it.

“Sit down boys,” Tony says from behind them, pointing at the couch. 

Bucky frowns, seeing that Sam and Natasha are already sitting there, remarkably quiet. Pepper is also seated, and appears to be drinking a full glass of something without any mixer. 

Steve and Bucky sit a respectable distance away from each other, Bucky between him and Sam. 

“Okay,” Tony says, crossing his arms again over his chest and peering at them. “Who wants to tell me how my War Hero came to be homewrecking for my wife’s prized blogger?”

“He didn’t—!” Bucky jumps in to defend Steve’s honor. 

“It’s not like—” Steve says, blushing furiously. 

“Okay, okay,” Tony says, lifting a pacifying hand. “Those nice policemen seemed to feel bad about breaking up your romantic sleigh tryst, but maybe they were mistaken about the situation. Which I guess means,” he adds, jerking his thumb at Sam and Natasha, “that this whole marriage failure is just on these two, who I found making out in the coat check about fifteen minutes before the cops called.” 

Bucky turns to Sam, mouth agape. Natasha’s just smirking, unrepentant. Sam shrugs. 

“Hey man, I saw you go off with him and figured the jig was up—or would be pretty soon, thought I might as well get my kicks while I was at it.” 

“So you two—you aren’t really married?” Pepper asks in a rather frail voice. 

“We—” Bucky says, looking at Sam, “No. We’re not.” 

“And you’re—not married at all?” She asks Bucky. 

Bucky bits his lip and ducks his head. For whatever reason he feels _much_ worse owning up to this to Pepper than to anybody else so far. 

“No ma’am. The blog, all the cooking and the DIYs and all that, it’s really me but the—the stories are a little more um…fictional.” 

Pepper heaves a deep sigh and takes a swig of her drink. 

“But you _did_ steal that sleigh to hook up with Captain Courageous over here, right?” Tony asks, pointing at Steve. 

“We—we didn’t steal it on purpose. We were distracted,” Steve mutters. 

“Aha!” Tony snaps his fingers with a laugh. “I knew those policemen weren’t wrong.”

“So what are you going to…do?” Bucky asks, not really sure what he’s even asking at this point. 

“Do?” Tony asks, sounding genuinely confused. “What do you mean?” 

“About…about the photo spread and the profile and all that?” 

“Oh, is there still something I have to do about that?” Tony looks at Pepper, raising his eyebrows. She looks back at him as nonplussed as Bucky feels. “I mean—we’ve got all the photos right? Pep and I already did the interview part. And you don’t hold a grudge right Potts?”

“I—” Pepper says haltingly, bringing a hand to her forehead, “I can’t even—”

Tony turns back to Bucky and Sam. “Honestly I was pretty sure the second Wilson walked out the front door claiming to be your husband that this whole thing was a little fishy.” Sam makes a strangled noise beside Bucky. “But agreeing to the whole thing got me out of going to Pepper’s mom’s for the holidays this year so who am I to—hey!” 

Pepper’s just smacked Tony’s arm—hard. “Tony! You agreed to the first profile you’ve done in three _years_ because you didn’t want to do Christmas in Iowa??”

“I mean…can you blame me?” 

Pepper groans. Then she looks at Natasha. “All men are liars.” 

Natasha’s smirk widens. “Yeah. Sometimes in a fun way though.” 

Bucky wonders exactly how long it took Natasha to ferret them out. Then he thinks about how she was wearing this exact Cheshire expression the very first afternoon she walked in on him and Steve in the kitchen and he thinks—not long.

“But how did you—how did you figure it out for sure?” Steve asks Tony, a bit of a bewildered look on his face. 

Tony shrugs, “I sleep five hours a night. Had to keep myself entertained somehow—it’s not that hard to find out everything about a person if you try hard enough and are willing to hack the occasional government database now and then.” 

“But you didn’t—you never said a word Tony!” Pepper says. 

“I thought it was funny?”

“Fine,” Pepper huffs, turning from Tony back to Bucky with a resigned expression. “You know what—you’ve still got great taste and the fact that you’ve pulled this off and I didn’t ever suspect is—so yeah. Offer still stands.” 

Bucky stares back at her, mouth open again, and he can see out of the corner of his eye that Sam is looking at her with the same expression. 

“I— _thank you_ —but I don’t—I mean, I live in an apartment in Brooklyn, not—not _here_ —”

Pepper shakes her head, looking around the pretty, glittering living room of the farmhouse regretfully. 

“Oh—don’t stress about that,” Tony says, pulling his phone out of his pocket and scrolling for something. “I made a cash offer on this place two days ago when I figured out it was a rental.”

“You _what_?” Pepper chokes. 

Tony looks down at her, “I mean—weren’t we having a good time? I figured maybe you’d wanna come back, or at least use it for photos when you and Buckaroo get down to business—what?” 

Pepper shakes her head again. “I need to wrap my head around this. I will be taking this,” she gets up, padding over to the bar cart to retrieve a bottle of wine from the bottom shelf, “with me. Goodnight.” 

And with that, she disappears up the hallway. 

“Hmph.” Tony says. “Well I’m also going to make a dramatic exit but first I’m taking those speakers down because they’re mine now and I’m going to have my way with them.” 

He climbs onto the armchair under the nearer of the two speakers, deftly fiddling it out of its bracket so that it falls into his hands. Tony tucks it under his arm and repeats the process with the other. Then he gives them a sloppy salute with his mini screwdriver in one hand before following Pepper down the hall with a cheery, “Night all. Let’s keep crime to a minimum ’til tomorrow.”

The four of them left exchange looks of varying confusion for a moment. 

Then Natasha stretches theatrically, her graceful limbs making her look like a cat. The comparison is even stronger in her black velvet dress as she rises and slinks off. She halts at the entrance to the hallway, looking over her shoulder and raising one perfect eyebrow. 

“Coming Wilson?” 

“Yes I _am_ ,” Sam says, springing from the couch without looking back.

The decisive click of Natasha’s bedroom door shutting behind them leaves Steve and Bucky alone in the baffled quiet of the living room. 

Bucky and Steve look at each other across the empty couch cushion. Bucky feels a slow grin spreading over his face. 

“That didn’t…go how I expected it to,” he says. 

“You live in Brooklyn?” Steve asks. 

Bucky’s hand jumps up to rub at the back of his neck sheepishly. “Oh um…yeah. I do.” 

Steve’s mouth twists into a dry smile. “Well. Good.” He gives a huff of laughter. “And you and Sam aren’t…at all?” 

Bucky shakes his head. 

“So who is Sam then?”

“He’s my agent, he—he didn’t know it was all bullshit until this deal came up. So I had to tell him the truth. But he said it was too good to pass up and—well, I guess the lengths he was willing to go to kinda speak for themselves.” Bucky adds with a chuckle, “I’m pretty sure we’re friends too. Now.”

“So your blog really did start out to troll everybody.” 

“Yeah, guess so. Though it was also—” Bucky ducks his head, “Um. If I’m honest it was also nice. Pretending. So I guess once again the joke was on me in the end. I got sucked in just as much as everybody else…wanting it to be real.” 

“Mmm,” Steve says, eyeing him thoughtfully. “One last question.” 

“Shoot.”

“Why did you decide to tell me? Tonight I mean?”

Bucky chews his bottom lip, feeling a bit exposed. Partially at least because he’s not entirely sure of the answer, and the pieces that he has a grasp on are pretty sentimental and embarrassing. But he decides to go for broke. 

“I just…couldn’t not,” he shakes his head. “When you looked at me—you looked at me like I was something—special. I needed you to know the truth one way or another. Kinda hoped it would go like this,” he waves a hand between them, then hurries to add, “but even if it didn’t I couldn’t have let you leave here thinking I was J.B. still instead of just…me. And I hoped you could still like just me. And yeah, I hoped that knowing I wouldn’t actually be cheating would also mean making out with you and…and whatnot.” 

Bucky halts, observing Steve’s face from beneath his lashes as Steve processes. His face is far away as he looks into the fire, and Bucky can’t tell quite what the feeling there is. 

“Are you…what are you thinking?” 

“Thinking…I guess I can’t be sorry at all that you—the real you—turned out to be so different from the blog writer I had a crush on.” Steve laughs, shaking his head. “That guy’s life is a dream house with his husband. This one…maybe has some space. For um. For me. Can’t be anything but happy things worked out in my favor that much.” 

“Yeah?” Bucky breathes, tentative.

Steve swallows, nodding, and looks up to meet Bucky’s eyes. 

“I’m also thinking that I should have saved the receipt for the His and His hand towels I got you and Sam for Christmas, but maybe you can still return them…”

Bucky throws his head back laughing, whatever tension had remained from their pseudo-arrest and the confrontation with Tony and Pepper bleeding away. Steve’s not mad. Steve’s—Steve’s hopeful, too, and that fact is worth all of the rest. 

Then Steve is reaching for Bucky and dragging him over by the lapels of his coat, and Steve’s mouth is on his again just where they left off—where Bucky hopes he won’t have to leave for quite some time. 

As he warms to the process, Bucky ends up pushing Steve back completely reclined against the sofa pillows, reveling in the long lines of Steve’s body under him and the strong, muscled thigh that creeps between his. 

It doesn’t take long before things heat up enough that they realize that neither one took off their outer coat when Tony marched them in—which is both very warm in the already warm living room and also in the way. 

Bucky laughs, sitting back to shuck his coat and shoes while Steve does the same, before falling back into place above him. 

Soon enough their jackets, shirts, and Bucky’s bowtie join the pile. Bucky sighs, and lets Steve roll him over on the couch, reversing their positions as they’re finally able to press close with skin to skin. Steve leaves Bucky’s mouth to wander, exploring across his shoulders and chest and stomach, while Bucky’s hands trace a similar, roaming path across Steve’s impressive torso. 

“How are you real?” Bucky asks, voice decidedly husky now. Kissing Steve languidly in the firelight is one thing—one really, really nice thing—but his body is getting decidedly more wound up by the proceedings now that they’ve shed most of the layers separating their skin. He’d definitely like to do something about the last few. 

Steve gives a deep chuckle, mouthing at Bucky’s collar bone. “How are you?” 

Bucky laughs, threading his hands into Steve’s golden hair. “Under all the bullshit you mean?” 

Steve smiles against his throat. “Yeah, under all that.” 

“No idea,” Bucky says, sort of losing the thread, bantering skills taking a hit as Steve once again drapes his full weight against him, lips brushing softly to find his once more. 

“Hey,” Bucky says a bit hoarsely as Steve’s hand trails down his side suggestively, “you want to uh…take this somewhere else?”

Steve nods, and lets his roving hands come to rest under Bucky’s thighs. He stands and lifts Bucky in a motion that is far too smooth and irresistibly hot, Bucky’s legs automatically wrapping around Steve’s waist as Steve turns them toward the bedroom. 

They get about half way down the dark hall before Steve seemingly can’t help but pause, pushing Bucky’s back against the wall and kissing him again, hard and deep so that he’s absolutely breathless by the time Steve pulls back. Steve’s eyes are dark and hair mussed and he looks ravished already, making Bucky lick his lips and tilt his hips forward a bit to urge him on. Steve smirks. 

A soft chime from the living room rings out, distracting them both momentarily from the matter at hand as their faces turn toward it. But it’s just the clock on the mantle, striking midnight. 

Steve faces back toward Bucky, and leans up to place a chaste, incongruously soft kiss on Bucky’s mouth—at odds with their distinctly unchaste position. 

“Merry Christmas, Bucky,” Steve whispers, eyes glinting. 

Bucky laughs. “Merry Christmas, Steve.” 

And when Steve resettles his grip, spinning Bucky away from the wall and striding again for Bucky’s bedroom this time with intention, Bucky can’t help but think that it is already, in fact, a much merrier Christmas than he had been anticipating.


	12. To Face Unafraid the Plans That We've Made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short little cherry to top it all off :)

**_Eleven months, Three weeks, and One day later_ **

“Steve come’ere and taste this would you?” Bucky calls from across the kitchen counter, scooping up a spoonful of the béchamel sauce bubbling in front of him. 

Steve groans but rises from the couch, where he’s been installed for the better part of the day surrounded by messy stacks of paper, a red pen tucked behind his ear. He stretches, and Bucky smiles at the tuft of hair sticking up on one side of his head from Steve unconsciously ruffling it in concentration. 

Steve swings around the end of the counter, coming up to press himself up against Bucky’s back, allowing Bucky to pop the spoonful of sauce into his mouth over his shoulder. 

“It’s good, that for this week?” 

“If you think it’s good enough,” Bucky replies, reaching for his pepper grinder, “don’t think it needs a little more kick?” 

Steve doesn’t reply, distracted instead running his hands over Bucky’s bare abdomen. It’s his own fault for cooking shirtless, Bucky thinks. Steve presses up tighter against him, pushing Bucky’s hips into the counter tantalizingly as he mouths at the juncture of Bucky’s neck and shoulder. Steve’s body is very warm and solid behind him, and Bucky rolls his head to the side a little to give Steve a better angle. 

But when Steve’s hand dips lower to fiddle with the top edge of Bucky’s sweats Bucky laughs and smacks it with the back of the spoon in his hand. 

“Quit it, I’m busy here,” he says, smirking back at Steve. 

“Mmm,” Steve murmurs, unperturbed. “So’m I.” He flicks his tongue out against the soft spot behind Bucky’s ear and Bucky’s resolve weakens a little. 

“How are the papers coming?” Bucky asks, trying his best to sound unaffected. 

Steve sighs, propping his chin on Bucky’s shoulder and wrapping his arms around Bucky’s waist. 

“Bad. Seventh grade writing is terrible.” 

Bucky chuckles. “Wow, three months into student teaching and you’re already a jaded old crone—I love it.” 

“Yeah well…I can think of ways I’d rather be spending my time at this exact moment.” Steve says, smiling against Bucky’s skin. 

“Too bad!” Bucky says, joggling his shoulder a little to dislodge Steve’s chin. “We’re due at the farmhouse tomorrow by six and this all has to be Pepper Potts-worthy before then. You’re too distracting.” 

“Can’t help it,” Steve says, though he does ease up slightly, letting his hands fall to rest lightly on Bucky’s hips. “You’re pretty when you cook.”

Bucky turns down the burner on the sauce so it won’t boil over, and turns in Steve’s arms to wrap his own around Steve’s neck. “Yeah? I cook a lot,” he remarks. 

“And you’re pretty a lot,” Steve says, grinning. 

Bucky tilts his face up, and Steve brings his lips to Bucky’s with a sigh. 

It’s hard to believe that it’s been almost a year of this, of kissing Steve. 

Even better, it’s been nearly four months since Steve was honorably discharged from the marines to enter a teaching program here in New York. He moved into Bucky’s small, crappy apartment at the end of September, and Bucky thinks he’s never loved this place so much—janky windows and all. Every day Steve goes to the school where he’s a student teacher, and then to his own classes where he’ll be getting certified. 

And when he comes home Bucky’s there to make sure Steve’s fed and satisfied—in all the ways he can think of—to reward him for his day’s labors. 

In exchange, Bucky’s cooking and baking and decorating projects all have a new, enthusiastic audience on which to vet them. After all—they’ve got to be Stark Media level awesome now. 

His posts on Thatchery&Sprig, as well as his guest spreads in Home and Hearth, still mention D.H. as much as they ever did. Pepper had been resigned to that—it wasn’t like Bucky could just let him disappear from the narrative entirely. And if the details about him are a little more pointed now, Pepper doesn’t seem to mind. Steve, while very Darling indeed, hasn’t quite acquired the H yet. But Bucky has hopes that he’ll be taking up the mantle soon. 

In fact, he’s hoping that when Steve finds the smallest, but most important little velvet gift box under the tree this year, Steve will say yes. 

(Sam said, when Bucky asked him to go help pick out the ring, that Bucky must be as dumb as he looks if he really thinks Steve might not accept. Sam had pretended to be exasperated by Bucky’s anxiousness about getting the band right—but when Bucky had told Sam as they walked into the third jeweler of the day that he was free to go home and Bucky could ask Pepper for help instead, Sam had been very quick to shut that down. Bucky knows Sam well enough at this point to see through the fake grumpiness. He predicts Sam will cry at the wedding and deny it happened later.)

Bucky smiles, thinking about this week—they’ll be spending the holidays in Connecticut again with Tony, Pepper, Sam, and Natasha, as against all odds it turned out everyone had as much fun as he did with the last one. Last year was good—he thinks this one’s going to be even better. 

Going to bed with Steve each night instead of Sam just being one of the many ways in which they are likely to improve on the experience—as Sam wholeheartedly agrees. 

“What is it?” Steve asks, eyeing Bucky’s grin suspiciously. 

“Nothing,” Bucky says, though the grin remains. “I just love you.”

Steve ducks his head, looking pleased. “I love you too.”

Bucky kisses him one more time for good measure, Steve leaning into it happily. 

“Good,” Bucky says, turning again out of Steve’s grip and reaching for his recipe binder. “Now go away and let me get ready—you’re a menace.” 

Steve huffs. “Fine. But only because I do actually have to finish these before we leave or else it would be béchamel be damned!”

Bucky laughs, and watches as Steve stomps back to the couch, sinking down to pull a stack of unmarked essays toward him with a focused crease between his eyebrows. 

Behind Steve, the one good window in the apartment is outfitted with what Christmas decorations they could manage in the tiny space (nowhere near the glittering excess he’s planned for the farmhouse again)—a garland over the top glints with a handful of ornaments, including one of last year’s kissing balls, and on the sill sits a little snow globe with a miniature stone farmhouse inside. Steve, unbeknownst to Bucky, had bought it after all, bringing it out almost shyly when he’d unpacked his things that first week here. 

Bucky turns back to the stove, setting the oven to preheat for the cake he intends to make ahead for tomorrow night. 

As he works he finds himself humming—the comforting, familiar strains of _I’ll be Home for Christmas_. 

He glances again across the kitchen at Steve’s golden head bowed over his work, and thinks—

_Yeah. I am_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of deets that didn't quite make it into the epilogue but I felt like you might want to know:
> 
> \- Steve is becoming a history teacher.  
> \- Sam is Bucky's best man and absolutely DOES cry. Bucky returns the favor when Sam marries Nat three years later.  
> \- Pepper and Tony let them get married at the farmhouse that summer. It's just close family and friends, and Bucky does all the decorating and food himself.  
> \- They definitely have a giant print of the sledding photo Nat took of them hanging up in their house somewhere. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for the warm and wonderful comments on this fic, I am so happy that it was able to bring a little bit of cozy Christmas cheer. You are all the best and I wish you very Merry Chrismtases all around!

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be updating this bad boy every few days or so, depending on my self-control. It's all written though approx 30k so go ahead and take a chance on me (ABBA singing) and enjoy some silly Christmas things with me--'tis the season! 
> 
> Let me know what you think! 
> 
> Beta cred as always to [@calendulae](https://calendulae.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. And you can find me there as well [@odette-and-odile](http://odette-and-odile.tumblr.com/), come say hi to us, we'd love it!!


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